More than I realized, Dad has helped me keep my balance.
When I was grown up, I was embarrassed to be seen with my father. He
was severely crippled and very short, and when we walked together, his hand
on my arm for balance, people would stare. I would inwardly struggle at the
unwanted attention. If he ever noticed or was bothered, he never let on.
It was difficult to coordinate our steps-his halting, mine impatient-and
because of that, we didn't say much as we went along. But as we started out,
he always said, "You set the pace. I will try to adjust to you."
Our usual walk was to or from the subway on which he traveled to work. He
went to work sick, and despite nasty weather. He almost never missed a day,
and would make it to the office even if others could not. It was a matter of pride.
When snow or ice was on the ground, it was impossible for him through the streets of
Brooklyn, N.Y., on a child's wagon with steel runners to the subway entrance.
Once there, he would cling to the handrail until he reached the lower steps
that the warmer tunnel air kept free of ice. In Manhattan the subway station
was in the basement of his office building, and he would not have to go outside
again until we met him in Brooklyn on his way home.
When I think of it now, I am amazed at how much courage it must have
taken for a grown man to subject himself to such shame and stress. And at
how he did it-without bitterness or complaint.
He never talked about himself as an object of pity, nor did he show any envy
of the more fortunate or able. What he looked for in others was a "good
heart", and if he found one, the owner was good enough for him.
Now that I am older, I believe that is a proper standard by which to judge
people, even though I still don't know precisely what a "good heart" is. But
I know at times I don't have one myself.
Unable to engage in many activities, my father still tried to participate in
some way. When a local baseball team found itself without a manager, he
kept it going. He was a knowledge baseball fan and often took me to
Ebbets Field to see the Brooklyn Dodgers play. He liked to go dances and
parties, where he could have a good time just sitting and watching.
On one occasion a fight broke out at a beach party, with everyone punching
and shoving. He wasn't content to sit and watch, but he couldn't stand
unaided on the soft sand. In frustration he began to shout, "I'll fight anyone
who will sit down with me! I'll fight anyone who will sit down with me!"
Nobody did. But the next day people kidded him by saying it was the first
time any fighter was urged to take a dive before the fight began.
I now know he participated in some things through me, his only son. When
I played ball(poorly), he "played" too. When I joined the Navy, he "joined"
too. And when I came home on leave, he saw to it that I visited his office.
Introducing me, he was really saying, "This is my son, but it is also me, and
I could have done this, too, if things had been different." Those words were
never said aloud.
He has been gone many years now, but I think of him often. I wonder if
he sensed my reluctance to be seen with him during our walks. If he did,
I am sorry I never told him how sorry I was, how unworthy I was, how
I regretted it. I think of him when I complain about trifles, when I am
envious of another's good fortune, when I don't have a "good heart".
At such times I put my hand on his arm to regain my balance, and say, "You
set the pace. I will try to adjust to you."