Butchblog

Even now, in this late stage of my life, my dad long gone, I am still trying to come to terms with my relationship with my father. Let me name him here, a good name—Meyer Freedman, M.D.  Yes, the M.D. was always a part of it. Something to be proud of. We all were. Mom told us we should be. And all the neighbors called him Doc and looked up to him. That name, on a black iron sign, was on the doorpost of our house and his office on the first floor, the neighborhood physician.

Our family life played out on the two floors above—though always impacted by the activity on the first, the people in the waiting room, the closed door of his office, the need to be extra quiet during office hours, day and night. We were a doctor’s family. And a Jewish one. Made for lots of questions in my mind. But these things were never discussed, not with children. Our opinions, if we dared to have them, were not to be expressed. We knew this without being told.

Dad was a strict parent, and a silent one. But he wasn’t intentionally mean or uncaring. I’m sure he cared a great deal about his three children; he just didn’t know how to express it. Maybe that was part of his generation’s idea of how a man should behave. Do your job, take care of your family, and show no emotion while doing it. Emotions were equated with weakness. I never saw my father cry, not even at his mother’s funeral. He never hugged his children or told us he loved us. I think he did, love us that is, but how was one to know? Still, I loved him. And I was also thoroughly scared of him. That was the relationship, love and hate, and it came along with the occasional, and rage-filled, physical punishment.

I recently watched a documentary about Martin Short, the comedian—”Marty, Life is Short.” What got to me was the depiction, through their home films and photos, of a genuinely happy and hilarious family. Their love was clearly expressed, and celebrated. They laughed and played together, even through all the usual traumas and heartbreaks that all families experience. But kids got to talk and joke with their elders and Marty Short came out of all that a caring, feeling, happy and funny man. As I watched, tears in my eyes, I couldn’t help feeling saddened that I never knew my parents in a similar way. I only hope that my own two children felt loved and cared for, felt included and free to express themselves. But I’m sure they have their own take on that.

I have forgiven my father any offense he may have committed; any lack of expressed love I know was not a lack of deep concern and affection. He was there for me when I needed him and was, as was a marker of the time, a good provider. Dad also served his country as a captain in the Army Air Corp in World War 2. He was proud of that and so was I. In his time, and in his way, my father was a great man. A man who had to overcome both prejudice and poverty to become who and what he was. I am who I am today, scars and honors both, because of Meyer Freedman, M.D. I only wish we could have gotten to know each other better. Love you, Dad.