I was only six years old or so, my brother Ron seven, when our parents divorced.

And I'll tell you right off the top ... I do not know why they split up nor am I that interested at this point in my life to find out.

I have few remembrances of each of our two homes in Wilmette, Illinois, the blocks  on which we lived and our neighbors.

One of whom included that 'mean old lady' at the end of the block who lived in the corner house directly opposite the hill we used to sled down on those wonderfully snowy days. (Actually the "hill" was nothing more than the embankment of the off ramp at Lake Street-but, to us little kids its slope seemed plentifully steep.)

All the kids were scared of the corner house lady. The thing was that no one had ever seen her-not that I can recall, so, as a consequence we dubbed her the "witch".

My father was not at home much-at least I have no memories of his being home. Rather, as a young dentist, he was working hard to build his practice. Something nefarious may have been afoot. I really do not know, but I prefer to give my parents the benefit of the doubt.

"Come over here boys for a few seconds," my mom said, taking a break from the dishes. We stopped what we had been doing in the front room and came to sit by mom at the kitchen table. She looked so serious. My brother and I listened with care.

"We're moving to St. Louis to live with Grandma.

"Hey! I'll tell Dad!"

"No!" she grabbed my forearm before I sped away. "Daddy is not coming with us."

"Oh ... why not?" My brother, as I suppose I did too, looked crestfallen.

"Well ... " my mother explained.

Unhappily, I do not have the faintest recollection of whatever she might have said, but of one thing I am quite certain. It was not long thereafter when my mom, my brother Ron and I were landing at Lambert Airport in St. Louis, Mo.

Awaiting us ... my Uncle Marvin, my mom's brother in-law.

We piled into Uncle Marvin's bright red Chevrolet station wagon and drove over to a nearby Holiday Inn wherein Aunt Iris and a magnificent lunch she had prepared awaited us.

We were, I guess, officially St. Louisans.

"You know what that is, right?" my brother Ron mischievously asked.

"What? This? Aunt Iris made it for me."

"No, not the sandwich, but what's inside?"

“Salami, I think?" ("Wonder what he's talking about? Seems fine to me.')

"You ever see salami look like that?" he asked, lifting off the slice of bread from atop my sandwich.

"It's tongue!"

"What?!" I spewed it out, food particles dangling from my mouth.

I've never had it again.

We soon settled into our new apartment at 20 Tower Hill Court, Olivette, Mo. 63145.  I bet you can't really believe I remember the zipcode after all of these years. It really wasn't a bad place at all. Really like an apartment community of sorts with a pool and tons of kids.

And it was there that I fell "in love" for the first time. Her name ... Kimberly after whom I named my daughter (a fact that Kimberly's mom to this day does not know nor need she find out).

I guess for many readers it should not come as much of a surprise, but I began seeing my dad more regularly than I did before we moved.

He would come down three or four times a year and spend the weekend with my brother and me. Looking back, it really was not that much time we spent with him but a welcome contrast nonethelesss to the dearth of memories I have of my dad in the years before my folks split up. 

Arriving Saturday morning, he'd pick us up at my mom's apartment, and off we'd drive usually to that same Holiday Inn by the airport to which Uncle Marvin had taken us upon our arrival in St. Louis.

There were three things we always did together when Dad was in. It was like our own special ritual from which we seldom deviated. Those weekends with Dad were our special times together, and I credit my parents with insuring that my brother and I were not deprived of our father's presence in our lives.

All maudlin sentiments aside, we did with Dad what guys do:  wrestling, drive-in movies and bowling.

My dad kept us pretty busy. We had quite a lot to accomplish in less than two days. He would even give my brother and me driving lessons in the parking lot of the bowling alley on Sunday morning before it opened for the day.

Something about Sundays though really colored my mood. Unlike carefree Saturdays, Sunday was the day when Dad would be heading back home to Chicago.  I remember dreading the return back to my mom's house-not that it had anything to do with Mom-it was simply that I did not want him to leave.

Years later, I remember one of my dad's favorite expressions that he often told me well into my 30(s).

Citing his father as his source: "You don't get any brains until you are forty. Until then, I'll do the thinking for you." Though both of us were unaware of it at the time, I later learned that it was a crude spinoff of the Kabbalistic adage that forbad the study of the Zohar to a man with fewer than forty years of age.

My father, a very adept technically educated man in dentistry,  imparted to me a love of reading and learning in general. As a high school student, I recall his spoken expectation that I read at least a dozen books during summer break.

He had acquired his love of learning from his father, Louis Haskel Busch, a self-made businessman and entrepreuner in Cleveland, Ohio.

Everlasting Stuff I have learned from my Father, who, at 86 years of age, is a practicing dentist and grandpa in Chicago, IL.

1. Whichever teeth you do not wish to retain in your latter years, do not floss.

2. If and when your kids toss one of your favorite hats out of the window on the interstate, do not become angry.

3. No matter how old and grown up your children are, kiss them.

4. What you wish for your grandchildren do so for their parents.

5. Encourage your high schoolers to read lots of books over summer break.

6. The police officer is your friend unless he's thrashing you with his schtekl.

7. Do not walk down Michigan Ave. dressed like a "zhlub".

8. Call your kids even if and especially if they don't call you.

9. Talk to your mother regularly.

10. It's okay for a man to be sentimental, even weepy when appropriate.

11. Inquire after the well-being of an "ex" for (s)he is a parent of your grandchildren.

12. Look illness in the eye and tell it to "piss off"!

13. Smile a lot and not just because your father is a dentist.


Alan D. Busch