I read this tribute over the phone to my Dad last weekend, because I’m unable to be with him in Chicago tomorrow to celebrate Father’s Day. His response was “Wow!” followed by a few choice anecdotes to embellish my tale. What a sharp memory, in his 80th year.
My father, Leonard, is known by his screen name, “LENNEM,” to dozens of correspondents worldwide. He is an unusual, creative writer, and we’re delighted to publish his pieces from time to time here in MyMac.com.
I dedicate this Father’s Day, 2004, to Leonard Nemerovski and to the fathers of all our MyMac.com writers. Long live “LENNEM” and long live MyMac.com.
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Tribute to Dad on Father’s Day, 2004
As a recently-young and deeply responsible father of school-age children, you had no special interest in boy scouts, competitive sports, rocknroll music, or technology. But you volunteered to help one Tuesday night when Wilmette, Illinois, Boy Scout Troop 2 needed some adult supervision. Without any planning, you soon became a chubby assistant scoutmaster.
Your greatest contribution to the scout troop was on our legendary canoe trip in the wilds of southern Wisconsin. Always being a man of the cloth (terry cloth), you filled your canoe with thick bath towels, to make sure you and your troopers (most notably sons Johnny and Kenny) would be dry at all times. Canoes tend to capsize unexpectedly, and it’s easy to imagine the consequence of having several dozen towels to collect and squeeze afterward. Then it rained all night.
Not long afterward I joined the New Trier High School freshman basketball team’s A-squad, which was beyond my ability. Translation: I never played. You and Mom attended every game, rooting for my erratic teammates, with you, Dad, not-so-gently lobbying the coach for me to get some playing time. Because my team never had a commanding lead, during periods of crushing defeat I would be called from the far end of the bench, with you and Mom cheering as I stumbled my way around the court.
As a freshman in Ann Arbor at University of Michigan, I joined a rock band immediately upon arrival. Our group had no money for me to purchase an electronic organ and amplifier, and I was in no hurry to tell you and Mom their son was dedicating his four years at Michigan to loud music and wild, drunken fraternity parties.
After paying for my equipment with earnings from our first band jobs, I suggested to you over the phone that I might be thinking about doing a little casual playing with some college chums from time to time. “Don’t even mention it, John,” you intoned, “because you’re at college for an education. No further discussion on this topic is welcome.”
My group, called successively Long Island Sound, The Fox, and the Floating Opera, performed in Ann Arbor and beyond during my college career, which I happened miraculously to graduate with honors in spite of all that rocknroll. You and Mom became our most ardent fans, attending grungy performances in Michigan, Ohio, Illinois, and during Rose Bowl festivities in California.
You two hosted the band members and several groupies at dinners in Ann Arbor, and all the other musicians still remember with pleasure the many times we stayed in Wilmette, including tons of great home-cooked food and thousands of gallons of soft drinks and Hawaiian Punch.
Stories. We are a family with generations of stories. From Fred, your own father , and his fried chicken, to your grandson Peter’s rafting trip, we love telling and hearing tales of family adventures. Your motto is “There’s no requirement for anything in my story to be true, as long as it could have happened.”
You told me years ago, Dad, that if you could begin your career again you would become a teacher or educator, instead of going into the insurance business. You encouraged me to stay away from the world of business, and concentrate on my talents and teaching skills.
That was good, heartfelt advice, and it has motivated me to develop non-material successes that continue to pay dividends for me and all my many students past and present.
You were a teacher, Dad, in addition to being an exceptional parent and friend. You taught me computers, believe it or not, back in 1977, when your mighty Texas Instruments thingamabob was connected to a cassette recorder and an old television. I learned the fundamentals of word processing and spreadsheets then. More recently, I’ve been giving you hour-long lessons in Photoshop over the phone and in person. Your motto is “Photoshop until I drop,” said with enthusiasm.
We’ll have stories about you for generations to come, Dad. Some will be true, and all will be exaggerated to reflect your larger than life impact on the lives of everybody who has the pleasure to know and love you.
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John
Tucson, Arizona
Father’s Day, 2004