The Oppenheimer Report 6/7/09

The last two weeks have been very strange because, although I knew Dad was very old, I had become used to the notion that he would be around forever; I think a lot of people did. He seemed unstoppable, and the idea that he is gone is just now beginning to sink in. The other night, as I was watching the Detroit Red Wings beat the Pittsburgh Penguins in game two of the Stanley Cup finals, I caught myself starting to phone him in Buffalo. What did he think of that penalty call, for whom was he rooting? He would have been watching the game for sure, probably wearing his silly red knit Cornell Sherpa hat, which he wore almost constantly near the end, because he was almost always cold. He customarily wore the hat for Sabres games, presuming that would bring them luck. Invariably, it had the opposite effect. A while back, before Dad became permanently bedridden, my niece took a funny photo of him wearing that hat. He was sitting in his favourite chair in the den, reading a copy of Mad Magazine he found lying around, grimacing like an old curmudgeon because he did not approve of the off-color humor. The photograph is priceless, and a copy was sent to every member of the immediate family. Indeed there are many snapshots of him worth “a thousand words.” So many faces.

I had a complicated relationship with my dad, and I suppose that is fairly common in father-son relationships. Because he was so much older than I, we fought a lot when I was a teen. As I think Mark Twain humorously pointed out, fathers can improve considerably as time passes. I worked for and with Dad for over twenty years, and really came to know him best during that time. Of course he had his faults, but what I remember most about him was his uncanny ability to size almost anybody up in one conversation. He was remarkably intuitive and smart, and I came to admire him a great deal. Whenever anyone says that I remind them of my dad, I am proud of and at the same time humbled by that comparison. Shauna says that I talk to the dog with the same baby talk he used, and that many of my mannerisms are similar. I guess it is inevitable that one absorbs some of the character traits of one’s parents, and perhaps we are genetically hard-wired to do so. I remember a story he used to love to tell, and it always used to bother me. When I was perhaps three or four years old, Dad took me to a place near our first house in Kenmore where they offered rides on a miniature train. He obviously thought this would be big thrill for me, and I suppose he was vicariously delighted that his son was going to have such fun. When the ride was over, he asked me how I liked it, assuming that I would have been overcome with joyous enthusiasm. My reply was simply, “I could walk faster.” He loved to tell that story; perhaps he was a little proud of the fact that, at such a young age, I was already a wise ass. I can only guess, because I was not around in 1914, that maybe my father was a bit of a wise ass himself in his youth. Sadly, none of his contemporaries are still around, and stories of his indiscretions are hard to come by. I did get a few from his sister Edith, before she passed many years ago, but I have no hard evidence.

As time passes, I will likely screen out the past six months or so when Dad was so infirmed. I will remember more and more what a good and virtuous man he was. Home movies and photographs will likely color those memories, and even perhaps embellish them. I miss my dad, but take comfort in the long and productive life he lived. I only hope that, as time goes by, I will become somewhat worthy of the comparisons some have made.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED