The first memory I have of him of anything, really is his strength. It was in the late
afternoon in a house under construction near ours. The unfinished wood floor had large,
terrifying holes whose yawning darkness I knew led to nowhere good. His powerful hands, then
age 33, wrapped all the way around my tiny arms, then age 4, and easily swung me up to his
shoulders to command all I surveyed.
The relationship between a son and his father changes over time. It may grow and flourish
in mutual maturity. It may sour in resented dependence or independence. With many children
living in single-parent homes today, it may not even exist.
There were, of course, rules to learn. First came the handshake. None of those
fishylittle finger grips, but a good firm squeeze accompanied by an equally strong gaze into
the other’s eyes. ” The first thing anyone knows about you is your handshake,” he would say.
And we’d practice it each night on his return from work, the serious toddler in the battered
Cleveland Indian’s cap running up to the giant father to shake hands again and again until it
was firm enough.
As time passed, there were other rules to learn. “Always do your best.””Do it now.””Never
lie!” And most importantly,”You can do whatever you have to do.” By my teens, he wasn’t
telling me what to do anymore, which was scary and heady at the same time. He provided
perspective, not telling me what was around the great corner of life but letting me know there
was a lot more than just today and the next, which I hadn’t thought of.
One day, I realize now, there was a change. I wasn’t trying to please him so much as I was
trying to impress him. I never asked him to come to my football games. He had a high-pressure
career, and it meant driving through most of Friday night. But for all the big games, when I
looked over at the sideline, there was that familiar fedora. And by God, did the opposing team
captain ever get a firm handshake and a gaze he would remember.
Then, a school fact contradicted something he said. Impossible that he could be wrong, but
there it was in the book. These accumulated over time, along with personal experiences, to
buttress my own developing sense of values. And I could tell we had each taken our own,
perfectly normal paths.
I began to see, too, his blind spots, his prejudices and his weaknesses. I never threw
these up at him. He hadn’t to me, and, anyway, he seemed to need protection. I stopped asking
his advice; the experiences he drew from no longer seemed relevant to the decisions I had to
make.
He volunteered advice for a while. But then, in more recent years, politics and issues
gave way to talk of empty errands and, always, to ailments.
From his bed, he showed me the many sores and scars on his misshapen body and all the
bottles for medicine. ” Sometimes,” he confided, ” I would just like to lie down and go to
sleep and not wake up.”
After much thought and practice (” You can do whatever you have to do.” ), one night last
winter, I sat down by his bed and remembered for an instant those terrifying dark holes in
another house 35 years before. I told my fatherhow much I loved him. I described all the
things people were doing for him. But, I said, he kept eating poorly, hiding in his room and
violating the doctor’s orders. No amount of love could make someone else care about life, I
said; it was a two-way street. He wasn’t doing his best. The decision was his.
He said he knew how hard my words had been to say and how proud he was of me. ” I had the
best teacher,” I said. ” You can do whatever you have to do.” He smiled a little. And we shook
hands, firmly, for the last time.
Several days later, at about 4 A.M., my mother heard Dad shuffling about their dark room. “
I have some things I have to do,” he said. He paid a bundle of bills. He composed for my
mother a long list of legal and financial what-to-do’s ” in case of emergency.” And he wrote
me a note.
Then he walked back to his bed and laid himself down. He went to sleep, naturally. And he
did not wake up.