My father’s grandfather was named Israel Schwab. At least he was when he arrived at Ellis Island from a small town straddling the Polish-Russian border. Language problems, impatience and incompetence in processing the new immigrants conspired to give him – and me – a new name. By the time he made the brief trip to Manhattan’s west side, his papers said he was Israel Goldberg. It hardly mattered as his mostly hospitable new neighbors immediately dubbed him “Jerry the Jew”.
The rest of my name comes from his son; the original David Goldberg in my family. Dave (we never called him Grandpa) was born in to a horse-and-buggy era and lived through the space shuttle. The world got small on his watch and he did his best to play a role. Leaving school at age 12, he went to work to help put food on the family table. Still a boy, he got a job with the city serving primarily as a court officer. He qualified for retirement before reaching 40 and immediately began a whole new career as head buyer for J.W. Mays; a leading regional department store. There he worked, prospered and excelled into his eighties.
Upon retirement – and without the benefit of a high school education – he enrolled in college; albeit as a non-matriculating student at LaGuardia CC. Any concerns as to whether he was ready were quickly put to rest. He was a brilliant, well-read man who proved up to academia’s challenge and then some. In retrospect, it might have been wiser to ask if higher education was ready for Dave. He racked up straight A’s while sharing his opinion at the only volumes he knew – loud and louder. After the 82-year-old freshman announced to his New York History class, “That’s not the way it happened. I was there,” the thirtysomething professor wisely allowed him to prepare and deliver several lectures to his classmates.
He spent his waning years scouring the five boros and the counties of Long Island in search of discount bagels, cream cheese, herring and strawberry preserves for our traditional Sunday morning breakfasts. He remained vital, active and sharp until his death after a brief illness in his mid-nineties.
My father was his only son. He was in a military high school at age 12 and enrolled in college at 15. At 17, he went to war serving as a weatherman on the USS Rudyerd Bay; an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. He returned home safely to finish college and law school before starting a family that grew to include three sons and two daughters.
That serious resume falls well short of the whole picture. As a man, Arthur Goldberg defies traditional description and I will make no attempt in this space. “Unique” may be the only word that would never draw a rebuttal. Likewise, his parenting methods strayed a bit from the norm, but all five of us understood the gift we had been given. We were smarter, more independent, funnier and happier for it.
My dad was never big on the kind of recognition that comes with Father’s Day and I am the apple that fell from his tree. While I may not be much for the formal celebration of the day, I am about fatherhood more than any single thing. I’ve often said that my life became meaningful the day my daughter was born. That sentiment is as true in my most personal reflection as any of the times I’ve spoken it aloud.
On this Father’s Day, I recognize the fact that, at its best, fatherhood spills across multiple generations. I do not merely follow the men listed before me on my family tree. I am a father because of Israel Schwab, my namesake grandfather and my own father. It is simply my turn; an enormous responsibility as much as a comforting truth.
When wished a Happy Father’s Day today, I did not let it roll off me as I always have. I accepted it on behalf of these men, and many others who comprise the part of me that is a father.
I am honored to follow in their footsteps and thankful for their help in raising my family.
The rest of my name comes from his son; the original David Goldberg in my family. Dave (we never called him Grandpa) was born in to a horse-and-buggy era and lived through the space shuttle. The world got small on his watch and he did his best to play a role. Leaving school at age 12, he went to work to help put food on the family table. Still a boy, he got a job with the city serving primarily as a court officer. He qualified for retirement before reaching 40 and immediately began a whole new career as head buyer for J.W. Mays; a leading regional department store. There he worked, prospered and excelled into his eighties.
Upon retirement – and without the benefit of a high school education – he enrolled in college; albeit as a non-matriculating student at LaGuardia CC. Any concerns as to whether he was ready were quickly put to rest. He was a brilliant, well-read man who proved up to academia’s challenge and then some. In retrospect, it might have been wiser to ask if higher education was ready for Dave. He racked up straight A’s while sharing his opinion at the only volumes he knew – loud and louder. After the 82-year-old freshman announced to his New York History class, “That’s not the way it happened. I was there,” the thirtysomething professor wisely allowed him to prepare and deliver several lectures to his classmates.
He spent his waning years scouring the five boros and the counties of Long Island in search of discount bagels, cream cheese, herring and strawberry preserves for our traditional Sunday morning breakfasts. He remained vital, active and sharp until his death after a brief illness in his mid-nineties.
My father was his only son. He was in a military high school at age 12 and enrolled in college at 15. At 17, he went to war serving as a weatherman on the USS Rudyerd Bay; an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. He returned home safely to finish college and law school before starting a family that grew to include three sons and two daughters.
That serious resume falls well short of the whole picture. As a man, Arthur Goldberg defies traditional description and I will make no attempt in this space. “Unique” may be the only word that would never draw a rebuttal. Likewise, his parenting methods strayed a bit from the norm, but all five of us understood the gift we had been given. We were smarter, more independent, funnier and happier for it.
My dad was never big on the kind of recognition that comes with Father’s Day and I am the apple that fell from his tree. While I may not be much for the formal celebration of the day, I am about fatherhood more than any single thing. I’ve often said that my life became meaningful the day my daughter was born. That sentiment is as true in my most personal reflection as any of the times I’ve spoken it aloud.
On this Father’s Day, I recognize the fact that, at its best, fatherhood spills across multiple generations. I do not merely follow the men listed before me on my family tree. I am a father because of Israel Schwab, my namesake grandfather and my own father. It is simply my turn; an enormous responsibility as much as a comforting truth.
When wished a Happy Father’s Day today, I did not let it roll off me as I always have. I accepted it on behalf of these men, and many others who comprise the part of me that is a father.
I am honored to follow in their footsteps and thankful for their help in raising my family.
Fantastic read (again).
ReplyDeleteis that a picture of any of the generations referenced? Or is that your cuz "Stock Goldberg"?