Ina Chadwick reminisces about her larger-than-life father and his untimely death—and imagines how it might have been different.
___
My father’s homecoming only two days after his departure with my mother on a dignitary’s tour of Israel—awarded to him for raising millions of dollars—was not quite a first-class arrangement.
Instead of returning in luxury, my father came home from Tiberius, on the Sea of Galilee, in a slatted shipping crate haphazardly plastered from top to bottom with “Port of Entry” stickers and official “Customs” stamps. Big block letters that had been exposed to rain during the transporting of cargo had leaked red ink into the cheap, porous wood. The large container had been proclaimed “free of communicable disease.”
But my father’s disease, while not a public health threat, is indeed a contagious and lasting one. Under the microscope the spiral threads of his DNA—the double helix of his verbal brilliance and leader traits—twist into the DNA of his black depression. His illness flows through my bloodlines, and, most importantly, his breakability has blighted my heart.
Nat Chadwick, my father, was a drunk who spent most of his weekday evenings in upscale bars, aided in his quest to be blotto by bartenders, maitre de’s, and his ever-faithful sycophants, barflies, and drunk cronies who benefited from his ferocious wit and drunken over-spending.
In one of the rare candid photos I have of him taken in the 1930s, when he was a labor organizer in the south, he is standing on a rickety porch with both arms draped around two boozy broads. He’s laughing. His man-in-the-moon, wide-faced smile and openness are what I loved most about him. There is a soft heart leaping out of those photos despite the fact that he’s wearing what’s now called a “wife beater” undershirt.
For all of my father’s rough and gruff posturing, I never saw him do a mean thing to anyone. Though he came home drunk every night, I swooned when he sang Melancholy Baby off key and wobbling. Madly in love. Unfortunately, he ended many of his performances with a fast exit for a barfing trip to the bathroom.
♦♦♦
During the day, Daddy presided over one of the most powerful trade unions in the country. At the time of his death he was on the short list for the cabinet post of secretary of labor. JFK had phoned a month before the assassination and told Daddy to get his drinking under control before the hearings. That was a tall order. Daddy needed alcohol to be comfortable.
At the funeral home I learned that inside that hideous crate was a plain pine coffin. Though Daddy and his family renounced Judaism in the early 1900s, my father supposedly requested that he be wrapped in a white shroud and buried amongst Jews. Apparently the crate had been constructed around him.
In the days after the funeral I stuffed away my terror of what would happen to our family without Daddy’s important job, the money, the perks. I worried about who would make me a three-minute egg every morning, crack it and open it, and hand me a spoon. Who would wait patiently while I finished my milk, gently prodding me because he drove me to school and didn’t want me to be late? He nicknamed me Dilly Dally.
As the steady stream of high-profile visitors—including the mayor, city commissioners, and showbiz faces—paraded through our apartment the days after his death, I dwelt upon the sound of the sirens, the squadron of police cars leading mourners up to the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey where he was buried.
I was 16. Certainly old enough to know that my father was too epic, too smart, to die such an ordinary death, to be delivered home as he was. As the weeks went by I began to doubt Nat Chadwick’s body was really in that box. I knew my father. I knew him better than anyone else. He sang only for me.
♦♦♦
Here is what I imagined: Daddy made a daring, final escape—he used his scotch-soaked twinkling charm, and his ever-present wads of cash, to bribe the Israeli doctors. They arranged for a getaway car to whisk him from the triage tent in the Army Hospital where my mother had taken him when he complained of chest pains. That’s what he did. Yes, that is exactly right.
Now 103, he is padding through olive groves in rope sandals. He no longer keeps a baseball bat in the trunk of his car. He doesn’t have a car. He carries a branch to use as a crook. He is never inebriated in that land that I imagine looks like Anthony Quinn’s Greece.
In Tiberius on the Sea of Galilee, my father is not a tormented man. Nor does the gray beast of melancholy, which climbed on his back and sent him into remorseful tears after every bad bender, stalk him.
My father, who softly explained to me once when I was 12, how hush money worked, how everyone used it, finally used it properly. He created a new life, far away, where I could never see or feel or be hurt by the “sad” Daddy again.
Ina,
Love your writing and honest depiction of your family. Brave. Honest.Funny.
Your writing takes my breath away Ina. So vivid, so detailed. You have a gift. I feel honored to peek inside your heart.
I appreciate the acknowledgement of the depression and the insecurity that drives so much of the “big shot” behavior and lifestyle. I grew up in the shadow of a big shot also, with all the perks: free front row seats, hobnobbing with the famous, private events, VIP service, etc…I was always comparing other men and also myself to my big shot brother, who is powerful, charismatic, loving. No one ever came close, especially myself! Now, finally out from his shadow, I can associate with normal men, and the pressure to be extraordinary myself, mercifully gone. It’s a great relief and… Read more »
A beautiful piece of writing. The music of her sentences “scotch-soaked twinkling charm” contrasts nicely with the honesty of this piece. It’s hard to love someone bent on self-destruction–they take us with them.
When Tom Matlack sent out an email asking for men to write about being “Good Men,” and when he appeared at a local theater program I was hosting, telling his story from the heart, one that had been told in his book, but orally and with great impact to 125 strangers, I had no idea how this project would affect my thoughts of What is a good man? Wow! Thank you, everyone who commented so far. This was indeed sobering. From the comments, I am further humbled and grateful that Tom, Lisa and Benoit opened up the dialogue to women.… Read more »
I was in college when I got the call from Ina that her dad had died. For me that was unthinkable to lose a parent – we were so young. She told me that I should get the New York Times and read the obituaries. I had never read an obituary in my life and didn’t even know that people did that. I was in Michigan and looked high and low for a newspaper to read and when finally I found one I was amazed at what I read. Growing up with Ina, being at our first birthday parties together,… Read more »
I also remember Nat Chadwick. He was my uncle. Ina is indeed lucky because she saw the real person beneath the insecure one I saw. I knew Nat before Ina was born. My father was his oldest brother. He loved and protected him. I remember as a child my father getting called from on of the :Boys to pick nat up from one of the Bars. My Dad always went. My father died when I was 17 and my mother and I were left without much money after a lengthy illness. My mother;s family was there for me and pitched… Read more »
Ina has a way of pulling you into her world with her words. As a female it makes you reflect on your father-daughter bonding moments. While reading about the life and untimely death of Nat Chadwick, you can feel Ina’s pain and her loss for that male figure. – reading this made me want more…more of Ina’s family, her perceptions of the world as a teen and young adult and how they have changed.
Ina, you write beautifully and powerfully of the tug of DNA that never rests. Thank you.
What a wonderful forum for you, Ina. After helping so many people unlock their own memories, I’m so excited to know that we will finally get to experience your great humor, wit, and quirky view of the world while also getting an inside view of a unique time and place and a slice of our history.
In her wonderful style, Ina has painted a picture of a man who was far from perfect yet loved by his daughter beyond a doubt …she makes you realize how strong the bond is between father and daughter, regardless of his flaws.
This is a courageous and fascinating memoir… part mystery, part fantasy. I wanted to read more and more.
You never cease to amaze me..that was really beautiful. I had no idea… about many things. I can’t wait to read more.
Ina has expressed so artfully what it’s like to love someone so much who’s so imperfect. The love I felt for my father, despite his drunkenness, despite his failings, was such a conflict growing up. I too,, often imagine my father as he wasn’t, but I’m also grateful for what he was. To me, he was a giant with a weeping heart.
Ina writes with a deft hand, a sardonic eye, and an open heart. I never knew Nat Chadwick but I’ve met him now. Let’s have more…. brava!
Just another reinforcement of how lucky I am to be able to work with you. Please write more.
As I read this story, I felt as I were watching a well done motion picture. Ina’s words paint moving pictures. The article leaves me wanting to hear more about this man, both the real and imagined one..
Your father was one vivid personality……..some painful memories, and some very wonderful ones make us who we are……..can’t wait for the rest of the story….keep writing for us!
Ina is a real talent. This is a heartfelt and honest portrait. Wow. Amazing. I want more.
Being Ina’s sister, we frequently had the discussion that “Nat Chadwick is alive and well and living in Israel”. Because the crate he came home in was not allowed to be opened, we never had the closure we needed to put that fantasy to rest. Of course, Ina always remembers things in much more detail than I do, being the creative person that she is. She always had her writing as her salvation, but alas, “forgetfulness” was mine.
I had the pleasure of meeting Ina far too long ago to admit, when we were both undergrads at a rather good school. It was clear from the beginning that she was bright and creative, with an enviable talent for language — In fact she wrote a delightful poem for my best friend regarding his MG-TD, my friend and herself, which my friend sent to Road & Track (which published it right away). I knew her father was an important man in the union, but I never knew anything else about him. This piece not only fills in some blanks… Read more »
I remember my Uncle Nat very well and on one ocassioon my other Uncle Gene an alcaholic like Nat and great bar buddies were in San Francisco for a Union meeting. I picked them up at the S.F. Hotel they were staying at to drive them to Millbrae where my Mother & Father had a home. Just for fun I took them to one of the highest hill in S.F. paused at the top so they could see the “drop” and soomed down at high speed. They both stood up and screamed–“Stop at the first bar–PLEASE!” I did as they… Read more »
More!! More!! Ina Chadwick is Nat’s best moment.
Powerful Stuff. This demonstrates so clearly that the effect of our fathers is still with us, decades later.
Melancholy Baby is one of my favorite songs. It is the anthem of the soused. It makes them think there is someone to catch them. Seems like Ina is catching her dad in this work. It takes courage.
Ina Chadwick uses dazzling prose to create a vivid and heart-breaking portrait of a tragically flawed yet loving father. Bravo Ina.