My Father’s Tie

My tie is frayed. I should get rid of it. I have many ties. Getting rid of one should not be news.

My father's tie.

My father’s tie.

On November 10th, 1997, I was speaking to my father. It was a memorable conversation.  The Eagles were playing the San Francisco 49ers on Monday Night Football.

At that time, I was living in Brooklyn and my parents were living in Philadelphia. So, my father and I were talking on the phone. Of course, I called during halftime. I was taught well.

I called to wish my father happy birthday. He was 65 years old. He was coughing a lot so our conversation was brief.  He was in a hospital bed. The doctors were running some tests. Anyway, we spoke a bit about the game, and he was more optimistic about the Eagles than I was.

I should have known right then that something was wrong.

My father died the next day.  I did not make it back home to Philadelphia in time.

While he had been sick on and off for the previous few months, no one – including the doctors – were clear on what was wrong with him or the extent of his illness.

The shock was great.

My father and I could always talk about sports. However, other topics were not always as easy.  We did not bring out the conversationalist in each other.

As I got older, our range of conversations deepened and so did our relationship.

My father and I were out one day.

“Hey dad, check this one out.”  We were in Today’s Man (Wiki – Today’s Man) on Roosevelt Boulevard in Northeast Philadelphia.

My father had asked me to come clothes shopping with him. He liked my taste in ties. He may have just wanted to hang out. My mother might have encouraged him to ask me. She also liked my taste in ties.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay,” I answered. I put the tie down. He ran a few of his tie choices past me. I showed him some more.

Eventually, we walked out of the store with a couple of ties.

His death was just a few months later.

My mother encouraged me to take my father’s ties. And I agreed to do so.

I wore my father’s ties sparingly.

I wore one of the ties on what would have been my parents 38th wedding anniversary. I wore one of the ties during the Passover Seder the following April. I wore one of the ties on his birthday the following year. The ties were always my first consideration at formal family gatherings, holidays, and bar mitzvahs.

Over the years, the ties never fully entered my rotation (between work and the Sabbath, I wear a tie six days a week). However, my father’s ties started appearing more regularly.

A few years back one of my father’s ties was showing wear.  It was brown and blue and matched a lot of my clothes.  I liked it. And it had been my father’s. I thought about keeping the tie as a memento.

I eventually got rid of it. I still had one of my father’s ties left, I told myself.

I wore that tie this past Sabbath. When I took off the tie, I noticed it had grown worn and frayed. If it were any other tie, I would have thrown it in the trash. But this is the last of my father’s ties.

It’s been over 16 years that he has passed, and the tie itself is nearly 17 years old. My father’s tie has served me well. I’ll never wear it again. I tell myself these things as I try to convince myself to get rid of the tie.

It’s part of my memory of my father. If I throw it out, it will be like throwing out a piece of my father. I could let it sit on the tie rack even if it never gets worn. All I’ll have left is his worn business card in my wallet. I tell myself these things as I try to convince myself to keep the tie.

I don’t know what to do about my father’s tie.

Love and Losing: A Bonding Story

Philadelphia Sports Stadiums

Courtesy of Deamstime.com

I have lived in the New York area for nearly 20 years. I’ve adopted many New York habits—walk aggressively and see red lights as optional, memorize where to stand on the subway platform for optimal entry and egress, and pronounce Houston not like the city in Texas.

However, I root for the Philadelphia sports teams. Let me explain.

The explanation is rather simple, actually. I am a product of my environment—the fourth son of a sports-crazed Philadelphia family.

My mother is still bitter over the 1950 World Series between the Phillies and Yankees. She anguishes over the three one-run losses. My oldest brother spit at the television while watching a Sixers-Celtics game. My next oldest brother was convinced he was bad luck and could not bring himself to watch the key moments of the 1980 National League Championship Series between the Phillies and Houston. My European born grandmother waved an Eagles pennant and ate pizza while watching the 1980 Super Bowl.

To read the rest of the post,click the following: http://goodmenproject.com/families/baseball-fan-wwh/

To The Parade

My older brother NG, cousin HW, and my father were at the Fern Rock Station in the Olney Section of Philadelphia. It was New Years Day 197-. We were excited.

We had spent hours at the Mummers Parade. The parade is a Philadelphia tradition which began in 1901. The Mummers Parade is an all-day affair featuring different divisions: Comics, Fancies, String Bands, and Fancy Brigades (http://phillymummers.com/). We watched the different divisions shimmy up Broad Street. They wore garish feather costumes, danced wildly, and played outlandish music. I loved it. I loved being there with my family.

And now you know my roots. I am a parade person. I love parades. The Mummers set a high bar. So, I am not interested in just any parade.

BR first attended the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade as a 7 month old in an infant carrier. We were living on Central Park West so my wife and I took our young son a few blocks south and watched some of the parade. I loved it. He was indifferent.

Tomorrow morning, BR and I (SJ is invited but seems uninterested in attending) will once again head to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. It is our fourth straight year and has become a Thanksgiving tradition.

I love the parade. BR enjoys the trip – the bus, the journey through the tunnel, and the teeming streets of Manhattan – as much as he likes the parade. Yet, to see the excitement on his face as another giant float turns the corner and makes it identity known is priceless.

Add the parade tradition to my list of reasons for Thanksgiving being my favorite American Holiday. I hope one day BR will take his son to a parade and think back on our Thanksgiving trips into Manhattan. I have so much to be thankful for.

On the Binder

Do you recall having loose leaf binders in school? I remember having a blue cloth loose leaf binder. I got my first one in 4th grade. I liked the different sections, the yellow dividers, and the inevitable reinforcements. However, what I liked most about having a loose leaf was that I could doodle on the cover. Whether its flowers and hearts or monsters and trucks, I think you can learn a lot about someone if you look at their doodles.

Well, if somehow my old loose leaf binders could be resurrected, they would confirm that I was a sports lunatic. I used to draw these rectangles which I envisioned as banners hanging from the rafters. This is where the elite athletes would have their names one day. However, the day came a little early for those I chose from among the stars of the Philadelphia teams of my youth – Clarke, Barber, Montgomery, Carmichael, Erving, Toney, Carlton, and Schmidt.

I put these players and many others on a pedestal. I looked up to them and imagined what it would be like to meet them. They were more than athletes I saw on television. I felt as if I knew them. I see my high school students do the same thing today. They are completely obsessed with particular players – Lebron James could have a thriving fan club just comprising the students I had last year.

In the years since my early ‘doodles’, I’ve realized that I did not know where to ‘draw the line’ – pun intended. Being a professional athlete means that an individual has been blessed with great skill which he or she has honed through hours upon hours of practice. It does not mean the athlete is a good person. It does not mean that I know the athlete because I have seen them perform their sport. I do not know them, and I have no true understanding of the type of person he/she is.

I want my boys to enjoy sports. Enjoying and partaking in sports is good exercise and a great way for children to bond. However, I do not want my boys to obsess over sports and blur the lines between a star on the field of play and a wonderful person in the game of life.

Respecting and admiring the athlete for his/her talents is fine. However, I also want my children to respect the policeman who puts his life on the line, the fireman who saves others, the military man who protects the country, the teacher who enables children, the entrepreneur who seeks to make things better, the scientist who tries to find a cure, the doctor who helps people to feel better, the religious figure who gives guidance, etc.

The point is everyone who works hard, shows care for others, strives to better himself/herself is deserving of respect. No one – particularly someone you don’t know – should be idolized. When it comes to worship, you should look above for inspiration and not around.

When my children get their first loose leaf binder, they will surely come to doodle on it at some point. As they consider what to doodle on their book, I hope that they will go beyond my options.

PS. I wrote a newspaper article about the Penn State situation that is related to this. Here’s the link: http://www.northjersey.com/news/opinions/163267936_What_to_do_when_idol_is_shown_to_have_feet_of_clay.html?page=all