A look on the lighter side: This column is for daddy

Judy Epstein

My father, Joseph Bernard Epstein, passed away in his sleep six years ago, on Oct. 18, 2007. He left behind my two brothers and me; seven grandchildren; and my mom, Rosalie. He was 89.

I’ve been pretty hard on Dad, in some recent columns, so I thought it would be only fair if, on this anniversary of his passing, I tried to present the other side. 

You always knew where you stood, with Dad. When he was mad at you, you knew it; and when he was done being mad at you, you knew that, too.  

Mostly because he would come with a hug and kiss at bedtime, and say, “I’m sorry I yelled at you. You know I love you, don’t you?”  We knew.   

Dad was a man of principles.  For example, corned beef was good, especially on rye – but it had to have mustard. Only a philistine would put cheese on that.  

Peaches were good, especially the tree-ripened ones from our back yard in Maryland. Apples were better. MacIntosh apples were the best of all. But beware, because too often, the ones they call that in the store are really something else. Long before those little round labels, Dad always knew. He called them “MockIntosh.”  

The first apple pie I ever made was for a school bake sale. Dad almost went crazy while it baked, then drove me and the pie to school, saying, “This won’t take long.”  He went in, asked “How much?” and plunked down the money without complaint. He called it “the ransomed pie.”

Apple pie was a good use for wormy apples, of which we had many after I made him stop spraying our trees with DDT.  His highest praise was for an apple you could eat while watching TV.  

That was a “TV apple.” Of the rest, he’d say, “It wasn’t a TV apple, but it was good.”

Dad was a man of predictable pleasures… like taking photos of the azaleas blooming in the spring. Every spring. And the autumn leaves, every fall. 

Dad’s motto might have been, “If it wasn’t photographed, it didn’t happen.” No family event, no vacation, was complete without us all being lined up, execution-style, squinting into the sun for the official photo commemorating the event.  Home movies, too. We complained a lot, but now I’m glad we have them. I just wish he was in more of them.

Dad believed in work. He left home in Brooklyn before finishing high school, to take a job at the Government Printing Office in Washington, D.C.  It was the middle of the Great Depression, and you didn’t turn down a job even if it meant leaving home at 16.  

But somehow he finished high school, and then college, in six years of night school, getting a degree in Economics.  

Dad’s life’s work, at the U.S. Department of Labor, was helping other people find work, too.  He was proud to be a “public servant.”  

Even after retiring, he volunteered as a career counselor. Only one head-strong client completely rejected his advice, insisting on getting her degree in the dubious field of philosophy before entering the even more dubious world of free-lance writing. (At least I can bake an apple pie!) 

Dad was a man of rock-solid loyalties:

To labor unions, of course. 

To the Washington Senators, no matter what – even though, as he said, “They could blow a 10-run lead in the bottom of the ninth, in a home game.”

To the Democratic Party, almost no matter what – although Dad’s passion for justice could trump loyalty, when need be. 

Once in his life, he voted for a Republican, because the Democrat was an out-and-out racist. That’s how Maryland unleashed Spiro Agnew on an unsuspecting world.

I think my dad would have understood the Occupy movement. He loved the irony of  Anatole France’s observation that “The law, in its majestic impartiality, forbids the rich and poor alike to sleep under the bridges of Paris.” 

Dad was a big one for fairness, and for the underdog, anywhere. 

Well, you would have to be, to root for the Senators. 

Most of all, Dad was for his family. 

We always knew we came first with him. In a world where people brag of working 24-hour days, I find it comforting to recall how Dad always made it a point to be home by six – in time to sit in his armchair and yell at the evening news. 

I miss him. 

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