Over the years, I have written about my dad, Morris (a.k.a. Moish or Moe) a lot, for one major reason. He has been a tremendously positive influence on my life. There are many I know who can’t claim that about their fathers, so I feel like I hit the jackpot. Born of immigrant parents (Rebecca and Jacob) whose families fled Russia during the pogrom, he was raised with a strong work ethic. He grew up in a multi-ethnic neighborhood in South Philadelphia. His family was on welfare and he pledged to pull himself out of poverty. His income and that of his siblings, helped his parents. When he began his own family, he continued to do all he could to support us. As much as I appreciated the ‘things’ of life that the money he and my mother earned provided for us, I remember a conversation in my teens when I told him that I would have traded them for more time with him. That was not to say that he neglected us in any way, since once he came through the door, as tired as he may have been, he was fully present. Hugs and kisses and then he headed to the shower before dinner. We ate together as a family, watched tv for a little bit (M*A*S*H, McHale’s Navy, All in the Family were some of our shared favorites.) and then my sister and I would walk my dad into his room and tuck him in, since at a certain point, he went to bed earlier than we did. He usually got up in the wee dark hours to head out the door to his job as a milkman and then later, a bus driver. I remember that his bedtime ritual included prayers and reading a few pages of his Bible. His religious beliefs and practices were his North Star which guided his interactions with the world around him. He didn’t preach. He taught by example. There weren’t too many people who said a bad word about him and those who did, had their own agendas to prove. The party got started when he arrived, although he wasn’t a drinker, nor was he loud. He was simply magnetic and could engage people in conversation easily. They felt cared about and listened to.
This is my favorite photo of my dad, around the age I am now, since it shows him in robust good health, having just retired and moved to Florida with my mom. He was a fitness buff and gym rat much of his life. He modeled an active life for us. He was a wonderful ‘girl dad,’ teaching my sister Jan and me how to be full human beings, not limited by our gender. He made sure that we had a good education in school, at home and synagogue. He stood up for us when a sexist rabbi wouldn’t count us in the minyan (a quorum of 10 needed for certain prayers). He included us in the Sunday morning breakfast club he ran at the synagogue, breaking the gender barrier and then our friends started attending. He was gregarious and taught us to be able to talk to anyone, telling us, “They put their pants on one leg at a time just like you do.” Just as he did with our mother, he had the 5 love languages down. He was affectionate, offered praise and affirmation, provided acts of service, (including changing the oil in our cars- he would don his coveralls and slide under the car in the driveway. He showed us how to do it too, but after he retired, I started taking my car to Jiffy Lube. We used to call him “Jiffy Moish’) when he was not at work, he spent quality time with us (jumping rope, marbles, ice skating, kite flying, bike riding, sledding, running and gardening) and gave gifts. I remember one Valentine’s Day; he and mom gave us little gold rings. I felt so grown up. I always knew I was loved, even when we would occasionally butt heads. His response at the end of arguments was, “As long as we love each other.” He loved music and reading, nature and walked the talk in his religious practice. He was a mensch who served as a volunteer throughout his life, including in his retirement. He modeled being in integrity. He worked hard to support our family and when he came home, he wasn’t the ‘babysitter’ who ‘helped’ around the house. He was the Daddy who knew it was just as much his responsibility to take care of us and the house. They were partners in all things. I trust that they are together on the Other Side. I have an unusual relationship with my dad, now on the Other Side since 2008. I miss him and I sense his presence every day. I wish I could have another face to face conversation and I am grateful that he and my mother did not live to see the sh*t show this country has become with the hatred, violence, bigotry, and anti-Semitism that run rampant. I’m glad that I didn’t need to worry about them getting COVID and saying my goodbyes via Facetime. He would never in a million years have supported the wannabe dictator and wouldn’t have understood why anyone he knew, would have voted for him, especially his fellow Jews and those of immigrant stock and would likely have had a conversation with them about it. Although he had a ‘to each his/her own’ attitude about most things this would have been a bridge too far.
I listen for his words of wisdom and his encouragement at the gym, “Come on, Doll Baby, you got this.” He worked out into his late 70s until Parkinson’s wrestled him down. I ask for his guidance occasionally and his response is often along the lines of, “Give it your best, you’ll get through it, and just love.” Happy Poppy’s Day (as my mother called it), Daddy. I love you a bushel and a peck.
Paul Simon – Father And Daughter (Official Video) (youtube.com)
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: Author
