Hoisting One for the Old Man

My father's stentorian voice boomed through the phone on this, the morning of his 91st birthday. He was going to a meeting protesting a new residential development nearby; tonight, after guiding the sunset, he'll be treated to a dinner which he felt sure would involve two of his favorite dishes: roast duck and lima beans.

Almost a quarter century ago, he had open-heart surgery -- just in the nick of time. Since then, he's been nothing less than a miracle: mentally sharp, physically persistent; energetic, optimistic and funny.

His old man, and his old man's old man, didn't make it out of their 60s. Maybe if they'd had open-heart surgery, they'd still be with us.

My dad gets more emotionally expressive, and frank, as he gets older. He sometimes speaks, but not in a morbid way and not often, about death. When my mom (not quite as old) came up with an ambitious redecorating project and asked my dad's opinion, he demurred. She persisted: she wanted to know if he would give her ambitious scheme his blessing.

Finally, he said: "I don't like the idea, and I'll tell you why: I've got between three months and a year to live, and I don't want to spend it in a construction zone."

Mom scolded him for being morbid; the redecoration went ahead; the construction zone was endured. That was about two years ago.

In school, Gabe has been asked to write stories using different letters of the alphabet. For "G," he decided to do a story on our family history, since we're the Gottliebs. He has committed to memory some salient facts about my dad's life: how he lost his brother (and only sibling) in World War II; how he missed being shipped overseas with a regiment that wound up getting decimated in battle, because the night before he was to report for duty he got a severe case of poison ivy from a bowling ball, of all things; how his grandfather was, for a time, chief engineer of the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893; and how he has seen, in person, many historic moments in baseball, including one of the most famous home runs of all time.

Yes, Dad says: he did call the shot.

I owe a lot to my dad: love of Billie Holliday, Louis & Ella and baseball; a poetic streak; life . . .And my son's physical resemblance to him. My sisters like to say that none of us, in our primes, looked half as good as our mom and dad in theirs. Maybe Gabe will look half as good as Dad in his day.

It's hard to know what to get such a person for their birthday. Fortunately -- just today -- I came up with something. It should get to him before the end of the week.

Tonight, I'll hoist one to the old man and say: Here's to you, Pops, with love as enduring as you.

And that's saying something.

--T.A.

Comments

[May]

I found this post mostly touching but it also made me smile. The passage concerning your mother's redecorating plans and your father's answer is quite familiar to me (although my father is "only" 71). In the end my dad always says: "If you really like the idea, pursue it". Fortunately for him, their architect is very busy and shows up no more than once a year.