A Letter to My Father
Since the time you put me to bed without diapers, you raised me. You were always around, always approachable. Many were the afternoons after you got home from work, that we sat watching the corniest reruns of Superman with the insufferable George Reeves. I think he was always jealous of his more muscular brother Steve.
Never one for outdoor sports or gardening, you always had your own intellectual interests. I remember several Christmas Days spent reading the latest Ariel and Will Durant books, one of which, The Lessons of Time, you recommended as one of your ten favorite books of all time. In fact your books have always been a great influence on my personality. I can't forget that one of the first things bought from a door to door salesman by the newly arrived immigrants was the Encyclopaedia Britannica, complete with approved bookshelf. It's still one of the driest reference works ever written!
There was always a wall of books, many in Swedish. Seldom was there a question or topic of conversation that couldn't be resolved by reference to this library. Today, I have an affinity for books that takes up many meters of shelf space. I regularly borrow an armload at a time from the public library, and sit up all hours of the night reading.
You were always willing to lend a hand with science projects, from the sublime (Nikola Tesla), to the ridiculous (do Rolaids really absorb 47 times their own weight in stomach acid). I attribute my analytical bent and interest in science to you. Never afraid to tear into the inner working of electronic apparatus, you kept our original television bought in 1952 alive well beyond its projected lifetime. If it hadn't been hit by lightning, you would be watching it even now. I still get a kick out of the image of you watching my little portable sitting of top of the old TV with the torch mark on the screen.
The spirit of adventure burned somewhere inside. Otherwise why consider moving to America, and later Cuba, of all places. It was a third world experience I'll always remember. How could we forget Castro stealing equipment from the nickel mine, the government trying to shell him out of the Sierra Maestra Mountains behind our house, or being marched at gunpoint to be held prisoner by the Cubans, or being evacuated by landing craft, destroyer, and flying box car by the U. S. Navy to Miami with only the clothes on our backs.
Other crazy escapades: staying at the Hotel Nacional where the crook Myer Lansky ran the gambling parlor, driving cross country from Havana to Nicaro in the 1955 Linclon Capri, raising a green parrot from near egg, getting haircuts outside the house with straight razor trim from itinerant barbers on horseback, buying vegetables from the Chinaman on the edge of the villiage, watching the turkey peddler slaughter his sale in the yard, having a huge bunch of bananas ripen on our tree only to be stolen, leaving just a macheted stem, King the horse crunching mangos off the tree out back, the six foot high fire anthills in the jungle behind the house.
In later years, always appreciated the tolerance shown by a card carrying Republican who voted for Richard Nixon, towards my bearded and long hair views of everything from military service, Vietnam, art, and Bob Dylan. It never seemed to quell animated dinner conversation with my various friends who all wished their parents were as able to relate, as interesting and as friendly. The New York apartment has always been a haven to any visitor, able to count on relaxing, good conversation and excellent meals.
This letter is to you, but let's give Mother a round of applause at this point. You guys always had great friends and great parties. The joy of life was not lost on me. Many strong relationships developed that lasted for life. As a kid, I was never excluded, always treated as an equal and as an individual. The only serious discipline was to turn the TV up until my ears bled or a slight kick in the butt, symbolic, but effective. I've used that butt kick on my friend's kid at times.
I'm glad you are my father.
Peter 10/23/93