Let It Be Fat

 “If you eat pork, let it be fat,” my father, Laurence (Larry) Israel Housman translated from the Yiddish so I could understand.  Yiddish was my father's first language growing up in Flatbush Brooklyn, although his only accent was a Brooklyn one. Another expression of his was "Don't be a question mark, be an exclamation point."

He wanted me, a quiet, introspective girl with her nose buried in books to embrace whatever I did with a full heart, even when it was wrong. The advice was great. But even better was what he showed and taught me.

He showed me how to feed squirrels in Riverside Park by tapping on the stone and pebble fence with a peanut in its shell to get them to come to me; taught me  how to pick out a good, second-hand novel and to eat kippers at breakfast on Sunday. He taught me how to fold the New York Times properly (lengthwise in columns) how to stand in a subway car without falling down (bend your knees and sway), and the pleasures of very long, leisurely walks from the Upper West Side of Manhattan to Greenwich Village.  Also how to bait a hook and fishing as meditation.

He introduced me to the Marx Brothers, W.C. Fields., Sherlock Holmes (I've been a Baker Street Irregular ever since) jumbo kosher beef hot dogs, and pistachio ice cream.

He adored my mother and believed she was the best thing that ever happened to him. He proposed to her by writing the names of their future children on a napkin in a Chinese restaurant. They were married three months after they met. They would dance around our living room to Cole Porter’s Songbook sung by Ella Fitzgerald. And by the way, he adored me too.

He believed in judging people by their acts, not their beliefs and did anonymous kindnesses quietly. He wasn't especially correct (at least at home). After a proper dinner served on china and a woven tablecloth at our dining table, he'd lie on the floor in the living room, loosen his belt and discourse and debate with guests, distinguished and not. He knew how to behave when dining out in his Brooks Brothers style attire with business associates or going out to dinner with friends. But at home? He just didn't want to. I was embarrassed as a teenager. Now I cherish those memories.

He relished chatting with people he encountered in the course of the day even if he didn't know them and arguing about politics with an old friend over lunch. These debates became a tradition almost a ritual part of their friendship, like his browsing in bookstores with me and his dances with my mother.

As I grew older, I introduced him to Japanese food, my first serious boyfriend and feminism. There were moments of tension  and conflict but always great love.

Then I moved to France and we only saw each other twice a year, once a year when I came home and once a year when my parents came to visit. Only at the end of his final visit did he tell me he saw what I found special in Paris. I'm glad he finally did since it helped us share something I cared about. 

I haven't mentioned it yet but he loved children, not just his one beloved daughter, all children. He could play with them endlessly.  Unfortunately, he died too young to meet his grandson, whom he would have adored, spoiled and played with like crazy.

When I have a big decision to make, especially an emotional one, I frequently think of him and that gives me strength. And I probably wouldn't be writing at all without his influence. He was one of a kind.

I miss you a lot dad.  Happy Father's Day.