The Gift From Dad Richard Decof   © Copyright 2023 by Richard Decof

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

At ten years old I was an "Indoor Boy" - not overly athletic, just under average height, and not muscular or well coordinated. Basketball was out of the question. Neighborhood football was somewhat better. I could toss a decent pass even though the ball was too large for my hands. During one Saturday afternoon game a larger boy tackled me hard enough that I lost interest.

Attempts at little League baseball were brave disasters. Right field was terribly boring and my bat never hit a baseball. I did reach first base twice. The first was a 4 pitch walk. The second time I was hit on the elbow and received an ovation for holding back tears. Mom would tell me, "always shake the other team's hands when they win."

From a combination of mimic, practice and determination, I managed to show occasional skill in swimming, bowling and golf - all interests learned from watching my father.

Dad's day was shaped by 3 youthful years in the Army. Up at 6am, out the door by 7am for a full day at work. Most weeknights he returned by 6pm for family dinner, watched TV until 9, then off to bed. My father's time was divided in so many directions - business, family, friends. He seemed so big, so important, so confident, so in charge.

Some mornings I would wake up before 7am just to watch Dad's morning routine. He would pick out one of 20 starched white or pin-striped dress shirts, one of 10 or 12 stylish sport jackets and a nicely polished pair of Oxford shoes.

From years of muscle memory Dad would measure the length of that day's chosen conservative striped tie then form a perfect Windsor knot. I never once saw him start over. Item by item he would follow a mental list, checking off each scheduled ordered movement.

Finally he would pour himself a coffee, grab his briefcase wallet and keys for the 40 minute drive to his office. In the early morning there was no conversation, just an acknowledgement that he knew I was there - a nod, a wry smile, and sometimes a pat or even a hug.

My parents were the portrait of 1960s successful educated Jews - only two generations from Yiddish speaking immigrants, seamlessly blended into America.

There were three of us children, boy/girl/boy, each a year apart. We were lucky to have caring parents who provided food, shelter and clothing. Mom made sure we had a quality education, every vaccine, braces for our teeth, rewards for good behavior and what we deserved for disobedience..

Mom drove a modest useful family car. Dad rewarded his success with a sporty '57 TBird with three tops. We lived in a comfortable suburban house.

It seemed only natural to have a dog. My sister insisted on a shelter dog who needed a home. She picked out a young 30 pound muscular golden mix with a curved-up tail. The dog loved my sister and tolerated everyone else. Around strangers he could be aggressive so she gave him a Tough name, Butch.

Friday and Saturday nights were special. While my mother dressed for their evening out, Dad played his baby grand piano. On those nights he revealed the gifted entertainer.

The first pieces were always subdued and soulful Classical such as Bach Inventions or Czerny. Then he would change the mood with a ragtime while bouncing up and down on the piano bench.

I loved the nights he played and sang 1940s Broadway tunes and Sinatra songs - parts of his playlist in nightclubs from 20 years earlier. For those short sessions he was truly at peace.

Dad was never distant, aloof or uncaring, but from my ten-year-old view, there were times he seemed unapproachable. I had no way of knowing that dad overthought his role as a parent, and that he was mentally consumed by several dilemas. How does a Harvard MBA converse with a young child? How does a highly intelligent cultured adult relate to finger-painting and Santa Claus? How does a decidedly sarcastic agnostic attend Temple with his family and pretend to observe Judaism?

Should he guide his children, and be blamed later for poor parenting? Should he enforce boundaries, and risk crushing a child's natural spirit? Parenting was a challenge without any reliable guidebooks.

My father consulted with a close college friend who had become a nationally-known psychiatrist. The friend had full confidence in Dad's ability to be an outstanding role model and parent. The advice further confused the dilemma. Sometimes he was simply performing as expected, at times ad-libbing, and always observing. In the end, my father chose to be himself - living his life, trusting lessons from his own parents, hoping for the best.

He participated in most national holidays such as July 4th and Thanksgiving, but left religious holidays to my mother. Many childhood birthdays Dad was out of town on business. Gifts on birthdays and Hanukkah were rare. Instead, he had a delightful custom of gifting thoughtful presents when least expected. In the Autumn of fourth grade I received a wonderful unexpected present from Dad. The best part of that gift was spending the entire afternoon and early evening one-on-one.

It always seemed to me Dad had little time (or interest) to spend with his oldest son. Conversations were short and direct. Any leisure time together tended to be quiet and respectful. Rather than become needy or whiney, the alone time shaped me to be more independent and self-reliant, which may have been intended. I also grew resentful, angry, insolent, willful and disrespectful to any and all authority.

Alone time also sparked some creativity, exploring my potential talent, entertaining myself with music. Many times my parents noticed their young son attempting to play piano. It intrigued them both that at 7 years old I confidently seated myself center bench.

Rather than banging keys, venting frustration like an angry child, I displayed respect for the instrument. I adored the piano. I was not just immitating him, I was finding peace as he did. We had a connection.

Dad watched and listened while I voiced sounds then found the correct keys. He realized his child had a harmonic ear and possible real talent for music. Should he get involved? Should he actively instruct his son? Another set of dilemas.

Playing piano was a skill that came naturally to Dad and to me. With his patient weekly instruction I learned rapidly. My fingers began to display exceptional dexterity and emotion, interpreting each piece as if releasing part of my soul into the music. Unfortunately growing tension and mutual expectations spoiled things. Another music teacher took on the task making much slower progress.

While my fingers could easily express musical rhythm, my body was unable to respond - I could not dance. Even my gait, walking or running was odd - just like Dad.

Some cruel boys at school made remarks about my walk, as if legs stepped first, and then the body caught up. The whole school knew. During an outdoor recess period, my unusual running style induced waves of embarrassing laughter from onlooking classmates and even a few teachers.

Even at only ten years old, I was well aware of my assets and my shortcomings. I prided myself in a proficiency at all necessary chores and humbly excelled at every academic challenge.

Our house was just under a mile from the elementary school, so a bus was not available. All those mile-long walks, day after day, gradually improved my leg strength and coordination. I didn't mind walking to and from school, but I grew to despise the Safety Patrol.

At intersections along my walk, student "Safety Patrols" guarded their spot, egotistically flaunting their angled belt sash and fake badge. Each appointed guard dutifully herded fellow students, making them pause until that fake guard decided the way was safe. I hated the Safety Patrol.

I'll admit that at first I admired the students chosen for Safety Patrol and yearned to wear the sash and badge. Several outbursts of childish behavior in class tarnished any chance of ever being selected. It was agonizing to pass them each day at a slow walking pace.

If I owned a bicycle and learned to ride it, these daily walks would be just terrible memories. I dreamed that dream for nearly a year.

One day in late October of fourth grade Dad surprised me with an amazing present. It wasn't my birthday or any gift-giving holiday.

At times my father would do noble thoughtful wonderful things straight from his heart, simply to make a loved one happy.

The gift was my first big 2-wheel bicycle - a 3speed Royce-Union. I had no idea what to do or say.

"Okay son, let's see you ride it."

He was genuinely smiling, and approachable.

My father seemed so stern at times. At least that how this young self-absorbed son viewed his father's facial expressions. I always thought Dad's intensity was an expectation of perfection - an impossible challenge for a child to achieve. I never really knew why.

Complete explanations about life were not in my father's nature. “The answer my son,“ he would say “is deep within you.”

On the rare occasions when Dad's focus was solely on me, the mature man was trying to be a good parent to his boy - a challenge he was never sure he could achieve.

That chilly October 1970 afternoon, the world consisted of only a father, a son and my new Royce-Union 3-speed bicycle.

First attempts to mount the big bike were awkward. It was sized a bit too tall or my legs were too short. Anticipating this possible problem, Dad brought an adjustable wrench, to expertly lower the seat.

Together we walked the bike to a high curb. As my father held the bike steady, I used the high curb to place my left foot on the closest pedal and swing my right leg over the center bar.

Success! I was soon balancing on two wheels, then riding, with aide from Dad. As my balance improved he would run alongside - arm's reach away, steadying the bike.

Then I realized Dad had stopped aiding. I was riding that big bike on my own. That was his fatherly nature in all things - allowing me to find my own way, at my speed or proficiency, to fail or succeed in my own way.

Attempt after attempt, Dad's patience never wavered. No prompting was ever necessary to rise from each fall, ignore skinned knees and elbows, walk the big bike to the closest curb and try again.

There were no feelings of an unachievable expectation level. Both father and son had absolute faith in success.

Once I mastered this bicycle, I would be allowed to ride it to school, past those Safety Patrol students with their sashes and their fake badges. How grand and independant I would be.

That afternoon Dad appeared much less severe, though never completely at ease. He smiled more than I'd ever remembered.

Safety was always part of the lesson. While I was completely absorbed, my father kept a protective watch in every direction. Several times I noticed his silent nod, meaning we would be briefly interrupted by cars.

One car approaching at high speed broke my father's calm veneer, sparking a volcanic outburst of quick temper.

"SLOW DOWN!" he screamed, then quickly gained composure and refocused on our task.

That afternoon and into the early evening when we were called to dinner, a busy father dedicated time to teach his young son how to ride a big two-wheel bicycle. Wordlessly, completely in character, my father showed by his actions how much he truly loved his son.