Father
I’ve been thinking about my father. He figures into most of the things I do. I‘ve been noticing that, too—the decision process in my brain.
My Dad was a salesman. He sold to retailers and he loved to shop—clothes, beautiful things, things you bought from the big family-owned department store in the middle of each city—he loved those stores. Dad gave me a line of reasoning to justify most any purchase, pretty much a lifetime license-to-buy. First question—Is the item on sale? Daddy sold to retailers; he knew better than to pay retail.
Then, there were certain items you could always buy; you always needed them. In fact—it was sort of virtuous to buy these things: food; drink and shoes. Dad died with a gallery of fine Italian 10 triple As that were barely worn. He would insist “When shoes fit you should buy them.”
I guess it’s a little unusual to have the shoe obsession handed down from the father. If I try to picture my Dad in one of his many well-chosen pairs of shoes, I see these huge, dark yellow suede oxfords he had. In hindsight, I guess it’s really good that he almost never wore them. But I thought they were wonderful. I pestered him to wear them more. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of them. They were always a part of his closet. They moved at least five times with us. They knew more about Mayflower trucks than they did Sylvan’s feet.
Yes, his name was Sylvan—Sylvan Irwin Feder. He was the last baby—one of the three American-born babies. And his mother found him the fanciest American name she could. This was even more of a mouthful than Maurice Bernard—the last, last baby, 8 years before Sylvan. My dad always introduced himself as Syl. “ Hi, Syl Feder here.” Nobody called him Syl. My little Hungarian grandmother would throw open her 4’9” frame and call out “Sonny” wrapping her arms around the fat bald man just like he was a little boy. I don’t remember calling him Daddy, but I think I did. Until I shortened it down to the more modern—Dad.
For an instant he breaks free of the snapshot that’s usually in my head. The round bodied 65 year-old, fixed with a bemused look that could turn to disapproval—critical as he was—but more often erupted into a chest quaking laugh, followed by a cough or two, and a gasp. I try to morph his image back into the younger man he must have been when his arms would catch me, racing to his knees. Daddy traveled so much he was always like a special guest. He loved being a Daddy—you could tell.
He began his athletic career after forty, so I would have someone to ice-skate with. He barely balanced his apple body on thin blades of steel. We’d brave the too, too cold and the wonderful stinky relief of the warming hut. Ice skating was an invigoratingly shared misery. He always smelled salty after these adventures.
I think Sylvan was a little surprised to find what a conventional life he led. He always seemed worldly-wise, as if he could have walked through any one of those worlds quite comfortably. He was part Sam Spade, part Enrico Caruso—sophisticated, intimate,familial an opera-lover. He idolized FDR and always mistrusted the establishment. People trusted him with their money and their family problems. He helped.
He had been rocked out of the old neighborhood, to go to war against fascism and genocide. Overseas, he was Father to some, brother to others. In North Africa, he was commissioned to buy provisions in French. Moving north into Italy, he learned about Italian girlfriends, Italian opera. Sylvano loved all things Italian. He lost friends.
He came home from war a pacifist. He found a woman who had her own story of that war, full of tenacity and life. My mother. They had both come of age during the war and were “marked” by the journey. She was a new immigrant who lost track of her family left in Hitler’s cruel hands. Her story demanded his service.
If he had lived longer, would I have gotten to know him better? Would I sit still for the repetitive stories. Or would I be annoyed at his slowness and frailty, the obstinancy and routines of old men. I can’t really say. But I know he’s part of my every day.