My father was both a simple and a complicated man. His parents were immigrant peasant Jews from East Europe who were escaping pograms, Cossacks, and conscription in the Czar's army where Jews were not treated well. He grew up on the mean streets of Chicago during Capone days, and all his life loved those black Caponish gangster hats. That was his generation's version of the backward baseball cap.
He was simple in his belief in the American dream, Bing Crosby, and his belief in social justice. He was complicated in his emotional opaqueness to himself. He made a lot of foolish mistakes in his time.
Once my cousin asked my Aunt Molly for a recipe for one of her revered Thanksgiving dishes. Aunt Molly was the only one who made this dish, and she didn't want to give it over, but my cuz was afraid Aunt Molly would die without revealing the secret. When Aunt M said, "Why do you need to know," cuz didn't want to say, "in case you die," so she stuttered, then said, "You know, in case you go out of town or something." So in our family, people don't die. They just go out of town.
Dad has been out of town for the past 11 years. He died a day after Father's day in 1997. One of his greatest gifts to me was his wonderful sense of humor. And he always delivered his lines with the greatest deadpan. There was just no getting the best of him.
We lived in a small, Southern Baptist town in Arkansas near Memphis. Every morning around 6am, Dad would be in Bell's Cafe where a lot of the town's businessmen and farmers would gather in the morning to discuss the crops, the Arkansas Razorback football team, the weather, the Negro problem, and politics. My father and uncle had a successful scrap/junkyard.
One morning, a farmer came up to Dad and said, "Louis, I'm coming down to the junkyard today to get some of that Jew money." Dad calmly looked up from his paper and coffee and said, "Jew money?"
To which the farmer replied, "Yeah, my church is fundraising and I'm coming down to your place to get some of that Jew money." Dad said, "We don't have any Jew money down there."
The farmer was shocked, but before he could say anything else, Dad said, "We don't do business with Jews."
When I was a young teen, I was in an argument with Dad about something he wanted me to do that I didn't want to do. In typical teen hysteria I started crying and complaining about it, and said, "Well I didn't ask to be born." Quick as a flash, Dad says, "It's a good thing you didn't, you'd have been turned down."
My Dad liked three heaping teaspoons of sugar in his coffee. And he often took a truck out on the road to buy and sell scrap. When he'd come home late in the evening, my Mom would have a cup of coffee ready for him. He'd sit at the table and begin to unwind.
One April Fool's day, my brother and I put salt in the sugar cup. When we heard Dad pull in, we hid behind the kitchen door so we could witness him spit out the coffee. He strolled in as usual, sat down. Mom poured the coffee without the slightest hint that anything was amiss. Dad spooned three big heaps of salt into his coffee and stirred. Then he took a long slow sip without so much as a grimace. He set the cup back in its saucer and said, "Hmmmm, delicious." At which point bro and I coming bouncing out of hiding yelling, "Dad! That was salt. Didn't you taste it?" Dad, of course says, "Oh, I didn't notice."
When he got older, and money was tight, he was fond of saying, "I have enough money to last me the rest of my life. If I die next Tuesday."
When he was sick and in his late 70s, we begged him not to drive, but he never paid any attention. One day he went out in the car during a big rainstorm. We were all nervous, and he was gone quite some time. When he returned, we were relieved, and I said, "Dad, did you have any trouble driving in the rain?" Still quick on the draw, he said, "Nope. A lot of people around me did though."
When he was stopped at a stop light, and didn't start up quick enough on the green, sometimes a road rusher would start honking at him. At that point Dad would get out of the car, stand up facing the person and just wave.
One of his most memorable quips happened when he was recovering from his first heart surgery. He hadn't yet woken up, and my mother and brother were in his room in the intensive care ward. A nurse came in and was fluffing his pillow just as he began to return to consciousness.
She patted his hand and said, "Are you comfortable Mr. B?" Even though he was groggy, his wit was right there. He said, "I make a living."
That story was told many times in our family. Six years ago my mother went out of town. She appreciated humor, but was not given to making a lot of jokes. The last week of her life, she was in the hospital floating in and out of consciousness. The last time she came to briefly, the family was gathered around her bed. She let out a little groan and opened her eyes. My nephew, in all seriousness, said, "Are you comfortable, Bubbie?" Her eyes lit up, she flashed a grin and said, "I make a living." Those were her last words.
So here's to you Louis. Thanks for teaching us how to laugh. I miss you.