There is a long, mysterious bamboo pole, about 6 feet long, in my Dad’s condo. It has perplexed my siblings for years. I mean, my dad has always been a bit nutty, but why in the world would someone need a 6-foot piece of bamboo in their closet?
I understand the piles of pictures. I get the drawers full of forgotten keys from houses long-burned down. The stacks of yellowed report cards. The baseball cards from our shared dual childhood obsession. The squirreled away bits of letters and memories.
But, seriously…bamboo, dad?
In my first year of marriage, my wife, Mary had to complete an intensive language course for grad school. It was in Rhinebeck. I had to stay in Baltimore for work, so Mary headed up to Poughkeepsie and my dad insisted she stay with him to save money. Of course.
For nearly a month, my dad and Mary lived in that enormous house on Scenic Drive. Even though she had been his daughter-in-law for less than a year, there was not one moment of awkwardness. No pretense. Just acceptance. When he accepted someone, they were part of the Habers. Period.
For 29 days, knowing that my wife loved his garlicky steak, my dad made London broil every single evening for dinner, until the last night when Mary gently suggested they go out to eat. You know, maybe for a something green. He surprised her with a piping hot bucket of…Kentucky Fried Chicken. And so, when Mary returned home, my 18-month spiral into vegetarianism began. Thanks Dad.
Mary’s trip taught me something about my dad. It showed me what loyalty meant. What family is. You see, when I was younger, I don’t think I really knew my dad, nor do I think I really understood him. Our relationship was always awkward and somewhat strange. He scared me I think. The loudness. The outrageousness. The bombast.
Sure all that racket was embarrassing as heck, but it wasn’t the noise itself that was particularly frightening. What terrified me was becoming that loud, that outrageous, that out of control. Like my dad.
Mary’s stay with my dad made me see something else, too. Parents aren’t really meant to be known or understood by their kids. But, they are meant to be felt. That is his legacy to me. He taught me to feel. To love with a passion, unchecked. A good kind of madness.
But, still, dad, what is the deal with that bamboo pole?
And then, just yesterday looking at pictures, suddenly we figured it out. That piece of random bamboo was not so random; it had held a corner of the chuppah under which Mary and I were wed thirteen years ago. To think, he had kept it all these years. And everything clicked. Finally last night, I was able to stop thinking about the puzzle of my dad. And instead starting feeling him and his deep love.