From my father, I learned how to survive my mother. This meant adopting behavior my mother screamed at - silence, withholding, depression. Only recently has she been able to name it.
From him, I learned the quiet habits of work. I learned that you get up early every morning and whistle under your breath because you are about to leave the house till late that night and have a valid reason why. I learned that if you put on a business suit and commuted to work, everything should be all right. On the train, you bought a newspaper which contained so much information that it had to be artfully folded into small sections and before you went into the office, you stopped off at a counter, had a cup of coffee with Sweet and Low and a danish. I learned from my father that golf is Republican and we're Democrats who respect the working person and think that all things are her due.
I learned from my father that America gave markets to everyone in the world and people are grateful. I learned that America is still the greatest nation in the world even though everyone but the Asians want to leave work at 5:00 PM. From my mother I learned that more words suffice than less. From my father, I learned the value of pithy description. Confused" - his estimation of what is wrong with America today. "Fucking confused" and he looks hard at me as if I'm responsible for the country's slide. I learn that property values decrease if you don't mow your lawn. Capitalism is better than communism but there is still something to be said for socialism.
From my father, I learned emotional distance and a marked disinterest in anything to do with psychology. I learned that problems might go away if you don't talk about them. I learned quick reflexes - replace it, throw money at it, fill'er up. I learned that the newspaper and the baseball game on TV were convenient places to hide when at home. Insurance will protect you. Assets, if wisely invested, will appreciate. Cars on the other hand depreciated no matter what.
From my father, I learned that memories are a way to escape the present. He told me about the old country, what little there was left that anyone remembered. How my grandfather always managed to find work during the Depression. How my grandfather was bandy-legged and spit in the street when he saw someone he didn't like. How he cried when he couldn't get his way, ate pickled herring in sour cream with lots of onions, ran his own tailor shop and had a secret affair for years after my grandmother died. How he never considered my mother a part of his family. My father paints pictures of the past, his voice takes on the sing-song lilt of Yiddish. His stories are heavily colored by seeing Fiddler on the Roof too many times.
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