Better Than All The Rest

The last time I saw my father was on a postcard picture perfect, sunny, island Sunday, in August, two weeks after his 46thbirthday. It was the late afternoon, when the sky is so clear reflecting off of the ocean, that it makes you wish you could paint it. He had been driving around, looking for me, in his red convertible with the top down, my stepmother in the passenger seat. They were on their way to the airport so my father could catch his flight back to the city to work for the week. I was mad at my father for lots of reasons that day. For making me leave summer camp two weeks early to come to the island, for getting married eighteen months earlier, but mostly for going back home without me and leaving me in the care of my stepmother’s family.

It had been five years since my mother had died. Everyone seemed to be so happy for me that I was getting a “new” mother. I thought they had all seen The Sound of Music way too many times. I thought we were just fine, thank you very much. If we were unhappy the way we were, it was news to me. As he hugged me, wearing his familiar madras shirt and round tortoise shell sunglasses, he looked healthy and tan. I waved goodbye nonchalantly, as he got back behind the wheel, acting as if I could care less if he came or went. He called out “Be good Rosebud” and then I turned away from him and got back on my bike, pedaling as fast as I could, my vision blurring. By the time the fog cleared on the following morning, I had become a ward of the state

Somehow, my father managed to work full time and care for his motherless girls, Brushing and curling our hair with a curling iron, cooking our meals, getting us into our uniforms and to school on time, arranging for play dates and summer camp. He took us to choir practice and Sunday School.

He attended all of our performances, and never missed parents visiting day at camp or father’s day at school. It seemed as though he was always there when I looked back. He read aloud to us from A Wrinkle in Time, took us to the movies to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and the Sound of Music. He took us to the theatre and to see Mary Martin as Peter Pan and Gilbert & Sullivan matinees. At Christmas time we went to see the tree at Rockefeller Center, and to Lincoln Center to see the Nutcracker. My favorite was always the tree lighting on Park Avenue where we would stand and watch the lights come on the trees block by block and sing Christmas Carols.

My father took us to England, Scotland, Denmark, Bermuda, St. Martin, Plymouth, Pasadena, Santa Barbara and Nantucket and probably more places that I can’t even remember. We flew on planes, took trains and ferries, and rode in convertibles, rental cars and taxis without a second thought. Never on the subway.

My father took us to book fairs and friends’ weekend cottages and out to a kennel in New Jersey to get our beloved sheltie, Polly. He manned the grill roasting the corn at my grandparents’ clambake and invited our teachers over for dinner.

He served Cheese souffles, artichokes and Coquilles St. Jacques on huge seashells. He worked in publishing and he held book launching parties at our house. He brought his authors to our school assembly. He brought home books and record albums. Mary Poppins, Nightbirds on Nantucket, Hurrah we’re Outward Bound, D’Auliers Book of Greek Myths, Flanders & Swann – At The Drop of a Hat, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, and The Sound of Music. He also brought home blank books – printer’s errors – for us to color in. All four floors of our house had floor to ceiling bookcases built in. He played the piano and we would sing along with him from the Fireside Book of Folk Songs. Our favorites were Molly Malone with the subtitle of Cockles and Mussels, and Edelweiss.

My father tanned easily and he liked to garden. The living room bay window was filled with begonias. He planted impatiens in our shaded beds and filled two large cement urns that sat on our stoop with seasonal plantings. I can’t imagine where he found all those plants in the city.

He loved gadgets. We had a huge tape recorder with big reels on it as well as record players and a phone that dialed numbers for you with punch cards. He always wrote with a Parker fountain pen. He kept a notebook in our kitchen with family phone numbers and instructions on where things were.

He started his day with black coffee, a soft boiled egg and The New York Times. He read all the obituaries every day. Telling us about ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

My father was home alone when he suffered a pulmonary embolism, 53 years ago, today. He was the same age that his own father had been when he died.

At his service, our church, St. James on Madison Avenue, was filled to capacity and people were standing in the back and lined up on the stairs by the entrance. I remember being scared as we walked behind his casket on the way out. When we got back to the house for the post service reception, the urns had been stolen from the front stoop.

My father’s bedroom was on the 4thfloor of our townhouse and my bedroom was off of the landing at the bottom of the stairs. After he died, my mind played this funny trick on me where just for a moment I thought I was seeing the familiar sight of him coming down the stairs. .

Years later, when we were clearing out the house, I came across a box of condolence notes. One of his work colleagues had written, “He was a true renaissance man. He was better than all the rest of us and we all knew it.” I would have to agree.

Thank you, Daddy, for everything

The post Better Than All The Rest appeared first on Notablerose.