April 10, 2011. Dear Pop

Dear Pop:


It occurs to me that 3 weeks from today is your 85th Birthday. We haven’t spoken in a while so I thought that I would bring you up to speed.

Every time I see a old Schwinn bicycle, I think that you’re sending me a message. It’s very comforting to know that you watch over us. I remember when you sold the stores. First the Sporting Goods store, then the Bike shop. You first offered it to each one of us. You were secretly glad that we said no. I don’t know how much you loved working there. I think that I loved the idea that my Dad owned a Toy Store, Sporting Goods Store and Bicycle Shop.

You never particularly liked sports, but there you were next to us and The Ranger games and later The Islander Games. Fast asleep. I tell a story about those days. There are 17,250 people at Madison Square Garden, screaming at the top of their lungs. You’re snoring. Suddenly you awaken, and say, “That was some play!” Michael says, “Dad, that was the Zamboni.” Only three people know that this is a canard. But when the rumor becomes fact, print the rumor. Anyway, I think that you’d get a kick out of it.

I remember as a kid wanting to have a catch with you. Before that day, I’m not sure that you had ever thrown a baseball in your life. You took out an expensive, Wally Bunker, Rawlings mitt from the store, and we had a catch. You weren’t bad. It meant a lot to me.

Every January we’d go to the trade shows. I know meeting Mantle, Mays, Aaron and Brooks Robinson among many others didn’t mean much to you, but you knew how much it meant to us. Because of what it meant to us, you enjoyed it.

As years went on, your love of family didn’t change. 10 years ago, I had 4 tickets to a Friday Night Yankee game. Of course one went to Michael, another to your granddaughter. We told her to choose a friend for the fourth ticket. She chose you. You hadn’t been on a subway for 30 years. (We took the 7 train to the 1969 World Series.) When she asked you graciously went. In the Fourth Inning, I looked over, and there you were, asleep.

I look in the mirror and I see your face. I wish that I had more of you. You used to say, “watch your words, you can’t take them back when they’re out there.” I know that you had a sarcastic sense of humor. You knew when to restrain it. I don’t always know. I’d like to learn to restrain my tongue.

Yours was a special generation. No hyperbole, but it truly was the greatest generation. Like many veterans of you generation, you first supported the Viet Nam war. Later you became vehemently opposed to the war, and all subsequent wars.

You may have been the most educated, informally educated, person that I’ve ever meet. You never went to college, I'm not sure if you graduated from High School. But if asked, I'd respond that my Dad was well educated.

You never were an enthusiastic writer, however. When I traveled Europe in the summer of 1976, I kept sarcastically writing and thanking you for his long letters. Until one day a letter finally came. I found in it 2 feet of toilet paper, with the words on the top Dear Marc, and at the bottom, here's your long letter, Love Dad.

I know that you worry about us, but don’t. You left us quite a legacy. Each other. My Parkinson’s has developed very slowly. I may be more functional today then I was when we last spoke.

Mom is great. You had great taste in women. My brother, my sister and your four grandchildren, follow your example of loyalty and love.

It’s been almost three years. I miss you dearly, but I’m not sad. I’m very satisfied with our relationship. We spoke frankly with each other and I know, just as I hope that you did, that we love each other.

I hope that you don’t mind if I write again. Please write back, I’m low on toilet paper.

Love,


Marc

November 29, 2010. In My Father's Eyes

I was first diagnosed with PD when I was 49. At the time, my wife and I decided to keep it quiet. My father was ill, and we felt that it would have been too much for my folks to handle at that time.

My folks had always been an integral part of my life. Not sharing this with them was difficult, but was part of the continuing process of growing up. i spent most of my Sunday mornings the next two years visiting my Dad. At first I would drive into Manhattan. Later, when I became uncomfortable driving in the City, I would take the bus. By that time I had told my folks.

With my father ill, and my future unsure, I was depressed. I didn't concentrate on my business. The coinciding with the worst economy in 70 years spelled near disaster.

My wife, far wiser than I, saw the future. She realized that my days of a 50 mile round trip commute were over, so she exercised insider rights given to us to purchase another unit in our building, and convinced me that we should purchase a studio apartment. My office is now on the 17th floor, my apartment on the 10th. An easy commute.

My friends on the Island also allowed me to use their offices. These offices are near the Long Island Railroad so it's also an easy commute.

I have and have always had bad work habits. I'll work for 20 minutes, walk around the office and "kibitz" for 10 minutes and back to work. The problem arose, who do I "kibitz" with on the 17th floor? The answer arose, The internet. I started to reconnect with old friends. One day around that time I woke up. The depression was just a waste of time.

I continued to spend my Sunday Mornings with my Dad. My dad was a special man. The most educated, informally educated man that I've ever met. He could have been, and in his own way was, a brilliant engineer.

Although Dad sold sporting goods, he never was a sports fan, but his two sons were. So dad would take us to the Garden to see the Rangers. 17,000 people would be screaming. Dad would be snoring. He wake up and say, "That was a great play." my brother would say, "Dad, that's the Zamboni." The story is not completely true. However as they said in, "The Man who shot Liberty Valance," "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."

I miss my Dad. I wouldn't have given up those last two years of visits for anything.