Barbara Russek: As Father’s Day approaches, I think of you, Dad

Dad needn’t have worried. Although he died only a year later, he is often present in my thoughts, and I feel his spirit with me.

When I think of my father, the first thing that comes to mind is how he met, fell in love with and married my mother Harriet — a story I never got firsthand from him, but one I never tired of hearing from Mom.

Dad was 44 years old, a bachelor living in St. Louis, who had vowed not to “settle” and to hold onto his vision of a future wife. She had to be tall, beautiful, a nonsmoker, great cook and more. As soon as he met my mother, his search was over. The only little problem was that Mom was dating his roommate, Fred. A man of integrity, Dad never intruded on his roommate’s relationship with Mom.

One day Mom told Fred that she had a friend Estelle who shared his love of classical music; would he like to meet her? Fred got the message. The Fred-Mom breakup occurred soon after. At that point, Dad stepped into the picture. A year later, my parents were married.

As mother told the story, she had a lot of respect for my dad, but with her it was not love at first sight. Nevertheless, at age 31, practically an “old maid” by the standards of those days, she accepted his proposal of marriage. Mother told me that her love for dad grew over the years. She was won over by his devotion to her, his little romantic gestures (never did he call her by her first name — “Baby” was the only address he ever used), work ethic, ability to bring joy into the home with his violin playing, and much more.

“You see,” she would comfort me, as the years went by and I was still single, “you come from a family of late marriers. You’ll find your soul mate one day. “

Dad worked six days a week in his furniture store, several nights until 8 p.m. Although he wasn’t home much, I still have snapshots of him in my memory bank. I remember how he would work a full day and then go grocery shopping for the family. I can still see him carting bags of groceries from the downtown market up the stairs.

In another picture, he’s in the living room of our second-floor apartment on a Sunday afternoon playing Fritz Kreisler on the violin, transforming that little apartment into a concert hall.

Dad also knew several languages, including Spanish. Although I became a French teacher, I think my interest in foreign language comes in part from the “foreign language” gene I inherited from him.

Another talent was his handwriting — it was really more like an elegant script. Unfortunately, the “handwriting gene” is not one I inherited, as I’m sure all who have tried to read my hieroglyphics and failed, including me, would agree. Oh well, you can’t get it all.

I also remember Dad’s human frailties. A victim of physical abuse by his own father, he lacked the parenting skills to handle with patience and humor the misbehavior of young children — especially that of my older brother. He often lost his temper at my brother for such inconsequential childish mistakes as getting his new shoes muddy or playing the wrong notes on his little violin.

Dad showed obvious partiality to me. Choosing favorites among one’s children is probably one of the worst mistakes a parent can make. Rarely after unfavorable comparison to a brother or sister will two siblings retain a close bond later in life.

Distraught over Dad’s treatment of my brother, Mom contemplated divorcing the man she loved, but how would she support two children on her own? What a heart-wrenching decision that must have been.

Dad died, too young, from heart disease. I feel that had he been living in the present, his years on earth could have been extended. Timing plays such an important role in our lives, don’t you think?

As I sum up my father’s life, I think that like most human beings, he was a combination of many characteristics, both admirable and not so admirable. One thing is sure: As long as I live, he will never be forgotten.