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Full disclosure. I adored my daddy, born Morris Harry Weinstein, who was called either Moe or Moish. He was my hero for so many reasons. From an immigrant family, whose parents Rebecca and Jacob left Russia during the pogrom to flee persecution, they traveled via steerage class on a ship and landed on Ellis Island, separately. Theirs was an arranged marriage that brought forth four children, my two uncles, aunt, and father.
Living in Depression Era South Philadelphia, they were on welfare, which my father referred to as ‘relief’—he was determined to overcome that status. That, he did. Although he had no formal post-high school education, he was able to support us (my mom, sister and me) in more than satisfactory manner by working initially as a milkman and then a bus driver. During times when there were layoffs and strikes, he picked up other jobs as a cab driver, car salesman and at one point, I recollect, he pumped gas. In addition, he did volunteer work in our community—synagogue and firehouse included. He and my mother (who also worked several jobs and volunteered while raising us) had a long and loving marriage. They were together more than 52 years when he died in 2008. He was kind and patient, and only rarely did I witness temper flares. Generally, they occurred when he saw wrongdoing in the world. His common line was “That burns me up.” Later, I realized, that like me, he was conflict-avoidant and would go along to get along, not rock the boat or make waves. It took awhile for me to make the connection that his guzzling of Maalox was to quell the inner burn.
From his parents, he inherited two qualities in particular. From my grandfather whom I never met since he died shortly after my parents’ wedding, he gleaned his work ethic. Not sure if my grandfather, whom my dad referred to as Pop was a workaholic but my dad certainly was. He would work, as my mother referred to it, “crazy hours” to support us. We didn’t live in the lap of luxury but always had more than what we needed. We were clothed, fed, educated, went on vacations, had books, toys, and more importantly, we were loved. My father wasn’t ‘the babysitter’ and didn’t ‘help around the house’. He was the daddy and shared responsibility with my mother for raising us and doing the necessary tasks to keep the household running smoothly. From my grandmother, he learned a bit of ‘smother love’. She hovered more than he did but still, he would allow his worry to bug the heck out of me. He would tell me that it was his job as a father to do that. I would remind him that worry wouldn’t keep me safe. We never did agree on that.
He taught me how to change tires and the oil in my car. However, I am glad to have a AAA membership and take my car in for service by professionals. We would ride bikes, skate, jump rope, play marble games, fly kites, garden, clean the garage (which would mean moving the junk from one side to the other, since he couldn’t bear to throw much out…. chalk it up to his childhood of scarcity), and we would talk. Sometimes we would butt heads, but love always prevailed.
A few Moishisms, as I have come to refer to his wisdom:
“They put their pants on one leg at a time just like you do,” so that I wouldn’t be intimidated by anyone.
“Your life is in the hands of any fool who makes you lose your temper.”
My parents set the bar really high for doing it all and for having what I think of as a successful marriage. To this point, I have not emulated it and the first is an ongoing endeavor and the second is what I welcome.
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A year ago, I began watching a hit television show called This Is Us. For those who have been living in a cave, a brief synopsis: Jack and Rebecca (interesting how close their names are to my grandparent’s names) Pearson are a young couple who meet and fall in love in the Viet Nam War era 1970’s. In the first season, they are about to give birth to triplets they plan to name Kevin, Kate, and Kyle.
Sadly, they lose Kyle during delivery. Simultaneously, another boy is abandoned at a firehouse by his drug-addicted father after his mother dies. A firefighter takes the infant to the hospital where Jack sees him lying in the nursery next to his children and gets an insight that they should adopt this little one. Distraught and grieving, Rebecca reluctantly agrees to his plan and they add Randall to the family. Enter The Big Three as the kids are called. Throughout the show, which is a stretchy time-bending adventure (moving from the 1960’s to the present- day slingshotting back and forth) the viewer sees the development of the characters and the pivotal event that molds their adulthood. Pretty early on, the show reveals that Jack dies in a tragic manner when the triplets are 17, but no specifics are offered. It is kind of like the “who shot J.R.?” mystery in the show Dallas. Lots of guesses abounded as Jack is shown struggling with alcoholism, as did his abusive father. Jack was determined not to emulate his dad. That he did in glorious form. At every turn, he was present, patient, loving, wise and witty. He did, however, over-indulge their whims, often to the frustration of Rebecca who sometimes felt like the bad cop to his good cop persona. It didn’t seem like a decision to undermine her, but to overcompensate for his childhood.
The development of each character is predictable (at least to this career therapist who could see the patterns unfolding) with each of the kids exhibiting their own addictions: Randall to perfection, Kate to food and Kevin to alcohol and painkillers. The stories and dialog are brilliantly scripted and guaranteed to bring forth knowing laughter and sometimes hard paid for tears. I imagine that more tissues are used during the airing of each episode than at any other time during a given week.
When the big reveal on how Jack died occurred on Super Bowl Sunday, for many viewers, it seemed like losing a family member. It did for me. It also gave me some insight into my feelings about my own father. Like the Pearson kids, I idealized and idolized my father. In the season finale, Kate marries Toby, a man who has stuck with her through thick and thin—they met at an OA meeting and both struggle with their weight. She realizes that she has allowed her attachment to the image of her father as the perfect man, has in some way, kept Toby at arm’s length. Call it Jack Pearson Syndrome.
Perhaps I do the same thing. I have never been with a man who has the combination of stellar qualities of my father. Seems that I need to release this limiting belief that I will not find someone who can offer love, respect, support, patience in abundant quantities as had my dad. I can still honor his memory even as I open the door to a different kind of love.
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Photo credit: Getty Images