Chapter 3

"Like my Father"

May 2010 – August 2013 

My mother and I were similar but entirely opposite in many ways. For example, I was one of five daughters while I had five sons—entirely opposite not because of what God chose for us, but because we both desired the opposite genders when we were young. Both my mother and I dreamed of having a lot of children, the same. But we were the opposite in our choice of eye color. I dreamed of blue-eyed baby boys, while she not only dreamed of brown-eyed baby girls, but her father indulged her by paying to have the blue eyes changed to brown eyes. Of course, all her baby dolls were baby girl dolls with blue eyes, since at the time, that was the only kind of dolls that were manufactured.

Another way we are the same, my mother was her father’s favorite—even before her brother passed away from pneumonia. I was my father’s favorite too, but also my mother’s favorite—the opposite. Sadly my sweet mother heard her mother grieving after her brother’s death, her mother, my grandmother, always favored her son, so when he died she said she’d wished it was my mother who’d died. Sad.

Well, are you completely confused? Maybe just bored? Okay, let me move on because this chapter is not about how I am similar to or the opposite of my mother but how alike I am to my father.

In a way, I was the son my father never had, and to add to my frustration at being born a girl, I was the middle child, surrounded by girls and all the drama that goes with it. I took after my father as far as my personality and intelligence—though my mother was extremely intelligent. My love for sports cars came from my father. He was born in NYC and drove an imported, right-hand drive convertible, a classic. Only one other star had a car like it. Fred Astair. My father was on the stage and during his time in between plays, we would vacation and later move to Florida.

My father’s wit and curt comments I also inherited and probably due to spending every moment I could with him. When we were in the city, especially when I was really little, he would take a walk around the city block after he’d eaten his dinner alone in the dining room while reading the evening paper. I sit quietly while he ate and then he’d get up to take a walk. Every evening, I listen for the elevator’s ding when I’d run to his bedroom, throw open his custom cupboard, and grab his leather slippers from amongst the pristine collection of his shoes that were lined up meticulously—each with wooden shoe stays to keep them in immaculate condition.

By the time I’d get to the living room, he would be sitting on the sofa with his highball cocktail relaxing. I’d slip off his shoes, massage his feet, and slide on his slippers. He’d smile and I’d slip myself under his arm to wait until he was called in to have his dinner. My father never ate with us, neither of our parents did. Not unless we were in a restaurant, but never at home. My father was always served his meals, in courses (salad, then the main course, and finish with dessert with coffee) just as if he was still living on 5th Avenue where he’d been raised. 

My father grew up in the penthouse and he ate all his meals in the hotel’s dining room. We, on the other hand, did not live in the penthouse, nor did we live close to 5th Avenue or Park Avenue. Nevertheless, most of my friends told me we were “rich” but I couldn’t really grasp that concept. My father and my mother grew up “wealthy” and what that basically meant is they had “old” money—money acquired over generations—despite the fact that both sets of my grandparents were immigrants and made their money in steel. So it was not entirely old but somewhat new money.

While my father ate his dinner, almost always a filet mignon cooked rare with vegetables that had to be in a separate small bowl, I sat next to him. I’d watch him butter his roll (that was also served on a bread plate using a special bread knife and his pads of butter sitting in ice in a small shallow bowl) but he never, ever talk to me. I never thought anything about it. I’d assumed even at an early age or maybe my mother had explained, that by the time my father got home he'd have had enough of conversations. We all knew not to disturb him, not make any noise. My father never yelled or got mad. Never once did I ever hear him raise his voice to my mother or anyone I can remember. He would simply discuss things intelligently, often by debating, but he’d always keep his cool and smiled knowingly. 

Like my father, the way he handled conflicts was how I handled them. I never raise my voice in anger and rather enjoyed discussing topics, even conflicts if both parties were interested in reaching a mutually agreed resolution. I’ve always loathed and avoided confrontational people. It’s draining being involved with someone who is determined to yell and argue—I also can’t stand watching angry people on television or in movies, I fast-forward or turn it off. I still can’t comprehend why this is considered “entertainment” for anyone, nevertheless, it seems more and more of these types of reality television shows are watched by women (primarily) but men too. To me, it trains us to view this behavior as acceptable. Regardless of not viewing this as “entertainment” there are a few of these shows, based on married couples, I do watch—because only then am I able to see what goes on. Also, I watch them so I can be compassionate to all the women who live this sort of existence and because I can relate. Dick came from and learned to fight. Sorry, I’ve wandered off again; where was I? Oh, right, my father’s dinners. 

Not every time, but often, while eating, my father would slice off a thin slice of his rare filet and put it in my mouth—being careful to include just a tiny sliver of the fat that he said was the tastiest part. My father, for the record, was very old when he passed away, well into his late 80s, which is proof that doctors haven’t a clue when it comes to diet. Maybe his purple onion sandwiches on white bread balanced the years of his red meat filets, but with all that hard butter on his onion sandwich and on his rolls every night, I doubt it.

After he was served his dessert, usually taking only a bite or two even if it was his favorite chocolate cake, he’d ask me if I’d like to go for a walk. We’d set out donned in our sneakers (tennis shoes) always turning to the right when we’d get to the sidewalk. My father would take long quick strides so I’d have to run just to keep up. He never slowed his pace to mine. We never spoke, but he held my hand and that was more than enough. Many years later, as an Olympic hopeful, my father never actually saw me compete. But I never doubted his love for me, never longed for the love of any man because I had more than enough love from my father. My only concern would be to disappoint him, even though he’d never really voice disappointment to me.

Growing up, I just assumed I would marry someone like my father. My father was handsome, he was charming but not of the deceitful variety. Maybe a better description was captivating. He wasn’t talented in everything but he knew who to go to if it was outside his knowledge or expertise. He had an endless amount of friends, many of who were outrageously famous, but like the saying goes, he never met a stranger. Everyone was an instant friend to my father. Whether my father’s friend was famous or just someone you would pass by without noticing—I became just like my father—he treated his shoeshine man, his barber, exactly the same as how he’d treat a star visiting from Hollywood. He was no humanitarian, but anyone who was respectful toward him, he would be respectful and a friend to any man. Again, like my father, he chose never to have any close friends from the opposite sex after he married. 

My father’s father, John (who technically would be my grandfather but because he died before I was born he didn’t seem like a grandfather), married a chorus girl, Margaret. My father was an only child even though there were “siblings”—a sister and a brother my father grew up with. My grandmother Margaret strayed at least two times resulting in pregnancy, but God only knows if she had more children who my grandfather didn’t allow to live in my father’s family home. So my father inherited my grandfather’s fortune after his father passed away prematurely. His wife, my father’s mother (who technically would be my grandmother but because she died before I was born she, too, didn’t seem like a grandmother) was dependent on her oldest son who had acquired guardian for support. After his father’s death, my father, with the help of his guardian appointed by my grandfather, moved into a penthouse on 5th Avenue and began supporting his mother and half siblings.

My father really didn’t have a mother figure in his life because she was often gone from home, traveling as a sister act with her sister even after she married. Immigrating from Scotland, the “Campbell Sisters” were a singing and dancing act in vaudeville. Vaudeville was a type of entertainment before movies. It’s where my grandfather met my grandmother and changed her life, but not really. Though wealthy I suppose she enjoyed being on the stage or traveling, maybe it was the applause or the fame with fans waiting for an autograph that she couldn’t let go of. So my father was raised by the live-in staff.

Another way I am like my father, I love to invent. Not the kind of invention that you would get a patent on in order to sell, but just to solve a problem to make daily life more peaceful and smooth. Like my father, I need things orderly: Shoes lined in a neat row, meals at the same time, and often the same, familiar meals. Maybe it has a lot to do with my father and me who both had mothers who were free-spirited—we craved order to counterbalance a spirit that often meant chaos.

Even though my husband Dick honestly loved and admired my father’s qualities, in a wife they were loathed. It may have been that he simply loathed me or more correctly what he loathed was being married to me when he was desperate for his “Rachel.” I wished I’d known because in my quest for order, to eliminate fights and arguments that were so foreign to me—quarrels that were commonplace and practiced often in my husband’s childhood home so he was a master of vicious arguing—I’d reinvent myself over and over again hoping he’d like (or at least) get along with the new version of me. But no matter how often I came out with a new me, none were met with the excitement a new Apple iPhone gets. I was doomed before I’d started. My eyes were weak and I just couldn’t see that no amount of changing would cause Dick to love me when he just wanted Rachel.

Promise

“Old things are passed away;
behold, all things have become new.”