Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me, Part 5

L’Dor V’Dor, From Generation to Generation

There are four chairs in my row at “shul” (synagogue) .

The first is mine, the second is Ben’s, the third is Zac’s and the fourth is … frankly, nobody’s. Rabbi Louis and his sons place their tallis bags, books and other stuff on it. Since Ben’s passing nearly eight years ago, no one else has sat in his seat on a regular, though not too frequent a basis, with one exception.

When my father comes to shul, as I hope he will again this year on Erev Rosh Hashana-the eve of the Jewish New Year-he sits in Ben’s seat. We call such a seat, a “makom kavua”. It’s a place where you expect to find a particular person sitting. Ben “shares” his with his grandfather. Do you remember “Tevye” in "Fiddler On the Roof"? This is the sort of thing he meant by “tradition!”

I experience extra simcha, happiness, when my father comes to shul. And that is as it should be. Shul life is all about family, community, happiness, sadness, belief, faith, friendship and, yes, God and Torah. Although not a religious Jew, my father’s ‘pintele yid’-his connection to Jewish life-no matter how tenuous it may often seem, is alive and well. Is there anyone who cannot understand how wonderful a grandpa feels when he has a son on his left and a grandson on his right?

I try to live my life as an observant Jew. My father accepts this. There was a time, however, when-like other family members-he did not. That way of life does still, however, frustrate him at times.

“Dad, do we have to go over the ‘food thing’ again?” I pled, irritated we were covering the same ground yet again!”

“How about a salad then? Will you eat a salad?” he persisted.

“Dad,” my patience waning, “let’s talk about other stuff.” It’s difficult for him to accept my kashrus as it had been for my mother.  It takes time. They do get it or simply tire of it  … eventually.

In the “Birkas Ha Mazon”, the prayer observant Jews utter after a meal, we refer to our fathers as “avi mori”, “my father, my teacher”.

At this time in our lives, I want and need to thank “avi mori”, my father, my teacher for being who he is and has always been. I have tried to replicate his example for my children.

Just a few weeks ago, my brother Ron commented about how sad it was, he thought, that my dad’s dental practice has come to an end after fifty-five years. Neither of us became a dentist. That is sad, I suppose, but it is not tragic. There was a time years ago when my father hoped for at least one of us to study dentistry.

And that is a perfectly reasonable expectation.

One afternoon, as a freshman at Northern Illinois University, I sat down on a couch in the lounge of the university center.

Dear Dad,

It’s really important that I make you understand. I have tried the chemistry courses and have a ‘B” and ‘C’ to show for it. I did study hard but it does not come easily to me. There are so many students competing for so few pre-med and pre-dent spaces. The competition is fierce, and I know for a fact there is a cheating ring that has gotten hold of the old exams. I also have taken several history classes. I’ve earned ‘A’ (s) in each one. That is where I want to be, Dad, in classes I like and get good grades. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

Love, Alan

Next morning, I dropped the letter in the mail. I awaited his response. He never mentioned it again. My father understood one of parenting’s most difficult challenges. By recognizing that my becoming a dentist was more about him than me, he released me to become a success in a field of my own choosing. I was going to succeed, just not in dentistry.

In good faith, I had gone down his path even if only a short way. I discovered though it was not where I wished to be. He let it go. My success and happiness were of greater importance to the both of us.

(to be continued)