My father lived for his children, his grandchildren and all their accomplishments, big and small. But mostly small. While fantastic job opportunities or impressive test results made him happy, it was the less glamorous, more benign things that truly thrilled him.
As a child (and, well, a teenager and young adult) I never quite understood why his degree of pride was so enormous when he heard something nice about one of his children (of which, so there is no misunderstanding, I was his favorite). He would never let it go unnoticed and, when he was feeling particularly impish, would call us into his office under the suggestion of our having done something wrong only to light up and tell us how proud he was that Joe Schmoe had told him he’d bumped into us and was so impressed with how we behaved or didn’t behave or spoke or didn’t speak or, well, you get the point. This was the stuff that, he would tell us, let him know that he and my mother had done something right and how proud he was.
Every home has certain mantras which are so often repeated that they come to illicit eye rolls and “ya, ya, I knows”. In mine, growing up, one of them was:
Don’t embarrass us and we won’t embarass you
I cannot speak for my brothers, but I can tell you that I, for one, took this very seriously. The mere thought of my parents acting in any manner that would in any way embarrass my pubescent self was enough to bring me to my knees. Granted, that which was considered embarrassing (like, oh, I don’t know – being seen together) was, in hindsight, completely benign yet wholly respected by my relatively hip and cool parents. And, since they held up their end of the bargain, I always did, too. At a certain age there is pretty much nothing more devastating than a parent who didn’t know how to be cool. They didn’t embarrass me, I, in turn, did not embarass them.
Fast forward to my own parenting. Georgie often embarrasses me but is still given a bit of a pass given the fact he is only seven. (Note to self: pass must expire before December when he turns eight. Arbitrary, yes. Negotiable, no.) Harrison used to embarrass me with greater regularity than I care to remember. Suffice to say, anytime we left him at a birthday party I worked it out so that Rich had to do pick up. Need I say more? Thankfully, he has long since abandoned the wreckless and obnoxious behavior and has become a true mensch. If anyone had told me when he was younger what a gentle and wonderful man he would become, I’d have called them a crazy liar. In fact, my father often assured me and I am quite sure that I did, in fact, suggest he was insane. He wasn’t. (Note to readers: this is one of the primary reasons I have allowed Georgie to live. I am still holding out hope that he, too, will achieve menschdom.)
Now, it is one thing for a parent to sense that their child is a good kid, it is quite another, as my father before me knew so well, to have someone else make a point of telling you. It is the proudest time in a parent’s life. Better than when your kid wins a race, or hits a ball out of the park, or brings home an A in science (something I don’t think my parents ever had the pleasure of experiencing). Given my pre-wired metric of pride, you can only imagine my reaction when I read this, written by our Cantor, in our Temple Bulletin:
I drove to Camp Kingswood in Bridgton, Maine, to visit Harrison Ross, a former student and communications vice-president of our USY chapter. I was moved by Harrison’s benevolence and maturity. He treated all campers and staff, regardless of age or popularity, with derekh eretz (respect) and this was reflected in the many friendly smiles and inquiries we received during the day. It has truly been an honor to interact with this young man, who acts decisively and with reverence for human beings.
“It doesn’t” as my father would always say, “get any better than that.” So, thank you for allowing me this indulgence and kvelling moment. Anyone who has ever parented anyone can, I am sure, appreciate the thrill Rich and I got in reading this. I only wish my father were here to be a part of it.
