When he was my father - Lessons from Dad: A Tribute to Fatherhood
My father had an unvarying ritual when he returned from work late at night, when we were all asleep. We lived in what was then called a railroad flat on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. When my father returned home in the early hours of the morning from his job at the Western Electric plant in Hoboken, New Jersey, he would sit in the kitchen, a soft light from a shaded lamp on the shelf above the sink illuminating the space. We all knew that was his ritual, though the 12 of us weren't awake at one or two in the morning. Dad's life was a solemn, serious puzzle to us. Any scrap of information we gathered—either from him or from our mother—was laden with significance.
That's how it was for me when I was 12 years old. I assume my brothers and sisters felt that same longing for some contact with and understanding of this man who would wake up for work when we were at school and come home when we were in bed.
Dad had to read the Daily News each night. Even though he had little formal education, he was an intelligent man who prided himself on his ability to do word puzzles like the Jumble. After a beer or two, he found solace in his quiet corner doing mental exercises that challenged him more than his grueling, mindless, job as a merchandise checker. These days his job is no doubt called "quality control" and requires an M.B.A.
I wanted to please my father more than anything. If I couldn't please him, I at least wanted to get his attention. But it was difficult because he was rarely home during the week. On weekends he was irritable or distracted, and we learned to leave him alone: Now I realize how much of that behavior was just part of his nature. He was brooding, undemonstrative, solitary.
Twelve-year-old girls (and probably boys) are obviously not equipped to take that into account when they need to have some gesture of love or approval from a father. I know I wasn't. I longed to make a connection with this phantom who sat in that quiet corner each night, earnestly working on the Jumble until weariness overtook him.
I knew that he liked baseball because he listened to the games on the radio. Every now and then, my mother and father would go to the movies together while my older sister and I baby-sat. I remember how it pleased me to see them walking together. As I leaned on the sill of the living-room window, I could watch them walk toward First Avenue and the old Monroe movie-theater on Seventy-Sixth Street. I felt proud of them because they were so good-looking together, and I knew it was because of my big sister and me that they were able to go off and, possibly, have some fun together.
To this day I don't know if they really had any fun together. Raising 12 children doesn't 1eave much time for frivolity. But those few occasions when my mother and father went out all dressed up made me believe they were happy to be together. And since I was partly responsible for making my father happy, it followed that he was pleased with me. He didn't say it, but it was enough for me that somewhere in his heart he felt it.
One day, I decided it was possible to communicate with my father. The way to do it, I realized, was to leave him a note or message on the sink, along with his newspaper. This inspiration was the simple solution to approaching a man who was always out of reach. It came to me on the day I received straight A's on my report card. My name was to be placed on the honor roll at Richard Kelly Junior High School, and I just knew my Dad respected that kind of achievement. He didn't read books, or discuss deep philosophical issues, or have more than a high-school education (if that), but I knew he was very smart and thought about many things he didn't express.
One night, with great excitement, I left my report card with a note attached to it that said: "Dear Dad, I thought you would like to see this." I wrote it numerous times so the penmanship would be perfect. When I awoke the next morning for school, I searched the sink top for my father's reply. My heart sank as I saw my note, undisturbed, still clipped to the report card. I wondered if I had done the wrong thing by intruding upon his solitude and quiet time. But when I picked up the note, I was overjoyed. There was a response. In a tremulous, faint script made with a blunt pencil, it read: "Very Good."
My father passed away over 15 years ago, but I still feel the intense
pride and joy those two words evoked in me. That first, tentative
invasion of his privacy also marked the beginning of a dialogue with my
father that continued for several
years. When I had something important
to say to him, I'd leave him a note, then eagerly look for his response
the next day. He never disappointed me, though he rarely wrote more than
a few words in reply. There was always some acknowledgment, and that was
enough. I knew he cared for me.
My father helped me understand that sometimes the most powerful emotions render us speechless; that there is sometimes little correlation between what we say and what we feel. Have you ever noticed, in fact, how easy it is to find the words to say something when your emotions are not involved? How glib we can be when it's small talk, when the heart isn't involved.
My father, so closed and private, taught me about the eloquence of silence.
—Joan Aho Ryan
Personal Review Notes:
After hearing about Lessons From Dad: A Tribute to Fatherhood I postponed making this purchase for quite some time. To my dissatisfaction I later learned that Lessons From Dad: A Tribute to Fatherhood is an extremely well written book containing many jewels of wealth to assist anyone to relate better with either the generation before them are the generation you are now molding into Christian's and responsible adults.
Lessons from Dad: A Tribute to Fatherhood
By Ryan, Joan Aho
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