Last Saturday, May 24th, marked the 50th anniversary of my father, John Goldberg’s, death. Bobbie, my wife, was in Connecticut with her kids and grandkids. I was left here with restlessness, discomfort and the urge to look at old photographs. I phoned my sister, Barbara Kinloch, not so much to reminisce as simply to talk to my sister. I posted this on Facebook:
The picture was made in 1945. In 1964, 50 years ago today my father, John Goldberg, died. Back in 2010 and again in 2012 I wrote about him in my blog. Today I have no words, no names for the feelings. So much we never got to share. So many nights at the bar without him to listen to me, to nod and put his hand on my shoulder. So much joy flooding my life right now without him to share in it. And yet I trust he knows, he feels and he remains with me always. Thanks Dad.
Friends were generous with their comments of support. These two, however, rocked me:
Bernie Sullivan: Rich, I remember many times when you were so proud of your dad because of his family ethics. People like him never leave us. They become our conscience.
Patrick McMahon: Beautiful. I understand.
Bernie and I go back to high school, have led very different lives and seem somehow to be connecting through Facebook. Pat and I worked in film together for years without really knowing each other, but now, again through FB, each of us has shown the other aspects of ourselves we were too young to expose earlier.
This morning, looking for some writing to work on, I came upon this:
Like Father Like Son
More and more, it seems, less and less matters.
Perhaps it’s age.
Perhaps Taoism—not the religion or the philosophy, but the worldview of things never more than what they are in this moment.
Perhaps it’s the quiet yet joyful feeling that accompanies the cutting away of each attachment to the desires carried in one form or another since that time I felt it important to succeed in life.
There was a time when identifying causality was my prime goal, especially in response to life shifts I’d not chosen.
Why am I doing—or not doing—this—or that?
was my default response before falling into life on the street. At that point,
became enough. In my post-street period—the more or less now-time–the response is
Now I frequently find myself astounded at my increasing relaxation, my easy acceptance of just going along with whatever’s happening and the soft, bemused delight that accompanies it.
- A film on Taiwanese aborigines replacing their spirit house?
- A rug in need of cleaning?
- A group on the emotional aspects of aging?
- A frank, well done, with mustard and onions?
- No tequila. How about an ice tea?
In a word I once hated but now see as invaluable: Whatever.
Johnny, my dad, Johnny knew how to live
Something this son didn’t realize while the old man was still alive.
He thrived on his family and his job and watching others play at sports and politics.
He respected his heritage.
The 4 years between the death of the Hartford Chiefs (Class A, Eastern, Boston Braves farm team) and getting a TV set to watch the Yankees or the Red Sox were not so much a time of mourning as of hiatus.
Dad knew how and when to rest.
He knew the senselessness of argumentation.
Some folks in the half generation between his and mine didn’t think so. They thought his lack of desire for success as they counted it was a weakness, a fault, a defect of character significant enough to be mentioned to his son at Johnny’s funeral. That son, me, already sufficiently deep in his father’s mold, did not coldcock those cousins who felt it necessary to criticize the corpse in the next room.
That was all then.
Right now I sit here.
Coffee to my left, Traffic outside the window.
Rejoicing in being my father’s son.
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Thank you all for reading this.