FIFTEEN YEARS

      Fifteen years ago a favorite holiday became tainted. Its joy was tempered by the death of a parent, my dad, on the night of the fourth candle. He loved Chanukah and all its trimmings. He loved the family get-together, with the kids running around, the laughter, the hugs and kisses - remember those - the food, the rituals, especially the lighting of the candles and the singing of the holiday songs. He even played dreidel with the kids and somehow, in a game of pennies, they ended up with bills, which they triumphantly paraded before their parents.

Thus, perhaps it was fitting that he died on Chanukah, imprinting the holiday permanently. Perhaps it was fitting that the last conscious act of his was the night of the first night, as we lit the candles in his bedroom. I was there, having flown up from Florida, knowing it was imminent, along with my daughter, my mom, his wonderful nurse's aide who helped my mom take care of my dad as she herself was not exactly the picture of health.

 Together, with him sitting in a chair, we lit the candles, sang out the blessings and sang the songs. Tears ran down our faces even as we smiled with joy. Why? Because my dad, who could barely sit in that chair, who could no longer open his eyes, who could no longer speak, was moving his hand in tune, in exact tempo of the music, of our voices. His favorite holiday and its observance. Three days later he died, dimming the lights of Chanukah forever. Perhaps he was emulating the death of his father who died so long ago on the last night of Chanukah.

And I lost a pillar of my life; the whole family lost that pillar. To this day the great-grandkids even remember him, the games they played together, the joy in his face as they came to visit him. Semi living in my daughter's house at that point, with visits to other homes of grandchildren, he was a permanent fixture in their lives. Today, all important family events, personal events,  are told to him and my mother, with invitations, notices, all left there at the site.

I wonder what he would have made of this mess of a country we now have. He was a patriot, loved the idea of America, appreciated the home and the opportunities it provided for his family, as new immigrants and native born citizens. He took pride in what the country represented. No idiot by far, he knew the reality of politics even as he went to the Democratic Club, standing up for honesty and honor, for civil rights, for the opportunities that should be available to all. 

A friend to all, black and white, brown and whatever color you wish, he knew no distinction, proud to be a friend to so many and they felt the same ties, as they flocked to his funeral, Black and White, Jew, Christian, Moslem, Hindu. Young and old. Overflowing the rooms of the funeral home, paying their last respects and then almost 24/7 continuing to pay respects over the next seven days. A never ending flow of people during Shiva, the mourning period.

I continue to mourn his passing. Even when we remember and tell the stories, we laugh and cry, we celebrate and mourn. His dying left a great huge hole in the family, and left my mom bereft of her soulmate. It left us all bereft, but determined to continue on his path, treasure his legacy. So today, as I argue against corruption, inaptitude, cronyism and the like, I feel as if I am honored, channeling him and his virtues, his paths of honor and honesty, of respect for the good, for all people, for America.

Take care of Mommy up there, go continue arguing with G-d, help Him to see the light, as we used to tease you. Miss you. Love you. Forever. Happy Chanukah, Pop.