The day we were saved by my dad.
This story may seem unbelievable, but it is absolutely true.
When my brother Harold and I were eight and nine years old, we went on a train trip with my dad on the then New York-New Haven Hartford railroad. When we got on, the train was so crowded that we could not all sit together. So Dad sat with strangers on a group of four facing seats, and a few rows away Ha and I sat together. As we settled into the trip, we enjoyed our relative freedom by playing card games, War I think, and horsing around. My dad had a limited view of us, and spent the time reading his beloved New York Times.
After about an hour passengers began to disembark, and the crowd began to thin. Dad’s three companions left. At that point, he called for us to come join him.
I still remember how cozy we felt in our original seats. We had warmed the seats up, and it felt homey. Being summoned by my dad seemed like an unwelcome intrusion. However, my dad was insistent and so we tore ourselves away from our nest and moved to the cold new seats.
Ten minutes after we had moved we saw a small group of laughing teenaged kids outside the window. At that moment, a large rock smashed through the window and landed smack on the seats that we had abandoned. There were shards of glass all over the place. Luckily no one had taken the seats, and the rock did no bodily harm to anyone.
Harold and I looked at Dad, then at each other. If we ever doubted the idea that Dad was always right, this occurrence cured us of that notion.
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The night I let my Dad down.
One evening our elementary school, Edgewood School, held a “father-son night” for the fourth grade families. Living only four houses from the school, it was a short walk. I dressed casually, while Dad dressed in his typical attire: a suit, tie, and charcoal grey overcoat, complete with a dark hat. As usual, Dad walked ahead of me, being too impatient to wait for me.
When we arrived there was a large crowd in the lobby of the school. There was a large tent and an array of camping equipment around it, including a portable barbecue grill. Two men were there answering questions and demonstrating the use of these devices.
Refreshment were being served in the lobby: red Hawaiian-type punch and sugar cookies. Kids from my class were hanging around, literally, on the railing of the three steps which headed toward the classrooms. I went to join them, but felt like an outsider. My dad was talking to another dad, and I saw his son dressed in a blazer and red tie going back and forth between them and the refreshment table. He looked uncool, and I was glad that I hadn’t dressed up. I ended up losing sight of Dad.
The camping exhibit was completely irrelevant to us. Our family was not the camping type, and we had no desire to learn. It was enough of a struggle to get through our day-to-day life at home. After about an hour and a half we went home, my dad again walking ahead.
When we got home my dad, without a word, went upstairs. I heard his bedroom door slam. After a few minutes my mom came downstairs in a rage.
“Your father is upstairs feeling very angry and hurt. He says that you completely ignored him and stayed with your friends the entire time. To make things worse, he was talking with a man whose son was very filial, bringing drinks and cookies to both of them. He wished that you had been so thoughtful.
I felt like two cents. I felt ashamed. I had let Dad down, and I had disappointed and shamed him. I carried the weight of this guilt for years.
Two years later our family went to a reception for “graduating” students who were finishing sixth grade. I dressed up in a jacket and tie, and while we were there I made it a point to be attentive to my dad, bringing him drinks and refreshments.
Afterward, at home, I asked my dad if I had done better this time. “Very well, setadul (second son) !” and he patted me on the head. But somehow I still felt that I had not undone the damage of the father-and-son night.
Many years later I related this story to my wife Carol, who is a trained psychiatric social worker. I told her about my guilt surrounding the first episode. “But Ed, what you did was typical behavior for a nine-year old–it’s a normal stage in a child’s development to want to be with his peers rather than his parents!” I was shocked to hear this, and then I felt a long-felt weight being lifted off my shoulders. It was normal behavior, not the result of my thoughtlessness or lack of loyalty. Normal.
This is not the first of my posts to talk about ancient guilt. It most probably will not be the last.
Thanks for reading.