Late in his career, Dad's industry connections and vast experience had him traveling internationally with what had been a great, but short-lived, extension of the Peace Corps. He was one of a dozen-or-so businesspersons from the U.S., handpicked from a much larger pool of applicants, who traveled to Russia and former Eastern Bloc countries to council businesses on how to open their products and services to western markets. In some ways, it was a perfect fit for Dad: freedom to travel and advise persons who were mostly ready and willing to grow their businesses in ways they'd never imagined. Dad loved to give advice for growing businesses and did a good job of not being too pushy or arrogant with his suggestions. He'd say things like, "Have you thought about..." or "You may want to try..."
He met many characters along the way, like the retired Russian general who "inherited" an entire tank factory after the Soviet Union fell. He was converting the factory to make remote-controlled firefighting equipment. Dad asked him how he was planing on marketing his new vehicles. The general was insulted at the suggestion that he needed to market his product, "I will build them, and people will buy them. That's the way it works." Dad had to gently remind him that Mother Russia would no longer be fueling the economy by purchasing his output as it had for decades before. He also had to carefully decline the rounds of vodka that the general would offer him at nine o'clock every morning. He had to teach some, and listen a great deal—these were people who had been behind the Iron Curtain just a few years earlier and Dad was very conscious of that; the deep historical significance was not lost on him.
Once, while on a trip to Poland with his group, they met late into the evening in the restaurant of their Warsaw hotel, debriefing each other on the day's events (this was also the same evening that one of his traveling companions was served tea made with water that hot dogs had been boiled in...it was late, and the water was already hot, explained the server). As the night wore on, the restaurant had cleared out and left their party and another group of about 10 men sitting across the dining room from them. At one point, one of the men approached their table and asked their interpreter if they were Americans. Yes, the interpreter responded. The man was very excited to hear this and asked if they could join their discussion. As it turned out, the Polish gentlemen were newly-elected senators and were working on a draft of a new constitution. They were using the U.S. constitution as their benchmark and wanted the Americans' feedback about what they should and should not copy from it. Dad, being careful with his words, suggested that they take into account that our constitution was 200 years old, written for specific conditions that did not necessarily exist in contemporary Poland...not to mention in contemporary U.S. He said (as retold to me later), "The first amendment, that's a good one. The second amendment, well, you may want to take a look at that one pretty carefully."
Hot dog water tea aside, he really enjoyed his trips. He went places he never thought he would, places like Moscow, St. Petersburg, Rostov-on-Don and Warsaw. He'd come home to Mom with armloads of chochkis and many, many stories to share. From stories come legends and the legend I'm reserving for my children is of how their grandpa played a role in the creation of the Polish constitution.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Scroungers
[submitted by Mom]
Dad was a scrounger. He was always bringing home something useful, saying it was for the kids. From Varian he brought a heavy iron whirly thing that they no longer had any use for in the process of manufacturing. He also brought home a cabinet from the deli that was no longer used. Jack decided he wanted to sleep in it and caught his finger in a knot hole. Lucky Grandpa Mayer was there to extract him (Grandpa was good at fixing things, like zippers and fingers). Of course, this habit of bringing things home rubbed off on Fr. Bud and he added to the collection with a fat—probably 6-8 inch diameter—braided rope from the ocean. He had Fr. Ed as an accomplice at that time. Back when we lived in Illinois, Fr Bud brought carpet rolls from the seminary. They were 12 ft. long and 14 inches in diameter. The kids fit right inside and rolled down our little hill on the side of the house. You could get 3 to 4 kids inside and the neighbor kids added to the melee. Once we built the backyard swimming pool, we couldn't get much more stuff into the yard, but now that there was the Woodworks, he could bring his scrounge there, like old rail carts. Now the grandkids, and of course Jack, got to enjoy.
Dad was a scrounger. He was always bringing home something useful, saying it was for the kids. From Varian he brought a heavy iron whirly thing that they no longer had any use for in the process of manufacturing. He also brought home a cabinet from the deli that was no longer used. Jack decided he wanted to sleep in it and caught his finger in a knot hole. Lucky Grandpa Mayer was there to extract him (Grandpa was good at fixing things, like zippers and fingers). Of course, this habit of bringing things home rubbed off on Fr. Bud and he added to the collection with a fat—probably 6-8 inch diameter—braided rope from the ocean. He had Fr. Ed as an accomplice at that time. Back when we lived in Illinois, Fr Bud brought carpet rolls from the seminary. They were 12 ft. long and 14 inches in diameter. The kids fit right inside and rolled down our little hill on the side of the house. You could get 3 to 4 kids inside and the neighbor kids added to the melee. Once we built the backyard swimming pool, we couldn't get much more stuff into the yard, but now that there was the Woodworks, he could bring his scrounge there, like old rail carts. Now the grandkids, and of course Jack, got to enjoy.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Pet Tricks
Caesar Augustus, "Gus," was the family dog. Adopted as a puppy when I was still toddling around, he quickly became the 8th member of our family. Dad named him after the first Roman emperor and he fit his name well; he was intelligent, regal in stance, and calm but solid in his role as protector of the household. He was leery of strangers, but took to them easily once he saw that they were friends of the family. When he was still a puppy he got out of the house to chase the mail carrier, nipping at her pant legs. She kicked him away and he never forgot. He reserved his most vicious barking for her. His protective nature aside, he was an obedient sidekick for Dad.
Although us kids were mainly responsible for taking him on walks, filling his food and water bowls and giving him regular attention, he knew Dad was the alpha of the household. Dad's voice would summon Gus from the other side of the house; Gus would come to Dad and sit like a statue in front of him, waiting for his command. Dogs welcome all the attention they can get, but to Gus attention from Dad was golden.
Dad trained him with the usual Sit, Stay, Come commands, but added in his own special tricks. He would balance a Milkbone on his nose and Gus would wait patiently, eyes crossed and focused on the treat, and with a simple "Okay, Gus" from Dad, in one lightning fast motion he'd flip his head back and catch the treat in his mouth.
Gus worked hard and played hard throughout his lifetime. In the end, it was the complications from hip dysplasia that eventually did him in. It was Dad, quietly and alone, who took Gus on his final trip to the vet. Mom and Dad never got another pet to replace him, due in no small part to the fact that they knew how special and unique Gus was and how it'd be impossible to ever replace him in the family.
Paula and I have what very well may be the world's worst dog. Max jumps and licks, runs by the girls and knocks them down, chews up their toys, scratches the doors and chews on the wood molding. He's got selective hearing and can be stubborn and downright bratty. But I have hope. Hope that I can channel some of Dad's calm-but-firm demeanor and hope Max can channel some of Gus' intelligence, patience and obedience. In the meantime, I've managed to teach Max the Milkbone-on-the-nose trick. He's not nearly as willing or agile as Gus ever was, but it's a start.
Although us kids were mainly responsible for taking him on walks, filling his food and water bowls and giving him regular attention, he knew Dad was the alpha of the household. Dad's voice would summon Gus from the other side of the house; Gus would come to Dad and sit like a statue in front of him, waiting for his command. Dogs welcome all the attention they can get, but to Gus attention from Dad was golden.
Dad trained him with the usual Sit, Stay, Come commands, but added in his own special tricks. He would balance a Milkbone on his nose and Gus would wait patiently, eyes crossed and focused on the treat, and with a simple "Okay, Gus" from Dad, in one lightning fast motion he'd flip his head back and catch the treat in his mouth.
Gus worked hard and played hard throughout his lifetime. In the end, it was the complications from hip dysplasia that eventually did him in. It was Dad, quietly and alone, who took Gus on his final trip to the vet. Mom and Dad never got another pet to replace him, due in no small part to the fact that they knew how special and unique Gus was and how it'd be impossible to ever replace him in the family.
Paula and I have what very well may be the world's worst dog. Max jumps and licks, runs by the girls and knocks them down, chews up their toys, scratches the doors and chews on the wood molding. He's got selective hearing and can be stubborn and downright bratty. But I have hope. Hope that I can channel some of Dad's calm-but-firm demeanor and hope Max can channel some of Gus' intelligence, patience and obedience. In the meantime, I've managed to teach Max the Milkbone-on-the-nose trick. He's not nearly as willing or agile as Gus ever was, but it's a start.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Happy Hour 101
[Mom may object to some of the content in this post, but I will point out that the questionable events occurred way more than 7 years ago.]
After Dad's memorial service, Mom invited all family and friends to her house for dessert and coffee. I made the rounds, chatting with people that I haven't seen or spoken with in years. I met with Great Aunt Sylvia and we tried to place when we'd last seen each other. I couldn't place the date, but she remembered, quite clearly, that it was more than 20 years earlier at Jenny and Gary's wedding. And it all became clear to me, too, why I couldn't remember. "You got very drunk. You seemed to be having a really good time!" she said with enthusiasm. With that, all the shame and guilty pleasure of a 16-year-old washed over me. Her depiction of me being "very drunk" wasn't at all an overstatement. I do remember thinking, "I can't believe the bartender keeps serving me champagne." And rest of the evening quickly became a blurry slideshow. I awoke the next morning, with my first-ever hangover after my first-ever drinking binge. I had to do the walk of shame from my bedroom through the kitchen—where Mom and Dad were washing dishes—to my bathroom on the other side of the house. I was doing my best to tiptoe behind them. Dad, without turning, said "Tim?"
"Yes," I croaked.
Mom asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Not so good."
"Good," said Dad. "Then maybe you've learned something."
That was it. Nothing more was said of the subject, although I did get a few raised eyebrows and knowing looks from them for the next few weeks. Julie and I spent the rest of the morning on a long pilgrimage to the store for bagels and other breakfast items. When I told her of my early-morning exchange with the Folks, she said, "That's all they said? Wow. You got off easy." Lessons learned: don't drink in front of the folks, and too much champagne is a bad thing.
There was an unwritten code in our family that allowed us kids, at or around age 18, to partake in adult beverages...within reason and with proper parental invitation. At age 16, I pushed my luck by ignoring the age, reason, and invitation requirements. But around the time of my high school graduation, Dad asked if I'd like a glass of wine with dinner. "Um, okay..." I said, waiting for the punchline. Lunch at the shop was occasionally had at a local dive bar, complete with pitchers of beer. Dad started getting an additional glass for me. While pouring, he'd say, "If you get caught by the bartender, it's your own fault." Certainly acceptable terms to me.
When Peter and Betsy got married, and as with many Ruszel weddings, the reception continued into the night at our house. Having learned my lesson from the previous wedding reception, and having been properly exposed to the unwritten code, I kept to moderate consumption. As the evening wore on and guests trickled away, Dad and I found ourselves sitting in the living room together. We'd finished our beers and Dad made the suggestion that we search for replacements. Dad huddled close to me and gave instructions, "Mom's cleaning up in the kitchen, so we shouldn't go there. I'll sneak out and check the coolers in the backyard, you see if there's anything left in the garage coolers." We headed off on our patrols and met up in the dining room a few minutes later, empty handed. Dad gave new instructions, "I'll check in the fridge, you see if there's anything in the pantry."
Dad was on his knees, digging through the refrigerator. Mom asked him, "What are you looking for?"
"Nothing in particular."
A moment later he turned and held a 20-ounce bottle of Japanese beer that had been given to him from our neighbor, Don. Grinning from ear to ear he called out to me, "Hey Tim! Look what I found!" His smile soon faded as Mom took the bottle from his hand and placed it back in the refrigerator.
"I think you boys have had enough for tonight."
With that, our quest for the last beer came to an abrupt end. There was no protest, no argument from us. We knew we were beaten and had to just resign ourselves for the evening. Dad put his arm around me, "We tried. I guess we better just call it a night, huh?" With that a new lesson was learned: be careful around Mom.
I've come to realize that the real lessons learned are: 1) it's important to drink in moderation; 2) don't flaunt privilege; and (the most important) 3) it's much more enjoyable to drink in the companionship of others you know and love. Sometimes we need to push our limits to learn those lessons the hard way, and blessings to Aunt Sylvia for fondly remembering my comeuppance.
After Dad's memorial service, Mom invited all family and friends to her house for dessert and coffee. I made the rounds, chatting with people that I haven't seen or spoken with in years. I met with Great Aunt Sylvia and we tried to place when we'd last seen each other. I couldn't place the date, but she remembered, quite clearly, that it was more than 20 years earlier at Jenny and Gary's wedding. And it all became clear to me, too, why I couldn't remember. "You got very drunk. You seemed to be having a really good time!" she said with enthusiasm. With that, all the shame and guilty pleasure of a 16-year-old washed over me. Her depiction of me being "very drunk" wasn't at all an overstatement. I do remember thinking, "I can't believe the bartender keeps serving me champagne." And rest of the evening quickly became a blurry slideshow. I awoke the next morning, with my first-ever hangover after my first-ever drinking binge. I had to do the walk of shame from my bedroom through the kitchen—where Mom and Dad were washing dishes—to my bathroom on the other side of the house. I was doing my best to tiptoe behind them. Dad, without turning, said "Tim?"
"Yes," I croaked.
Mom asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Not so good."
"Good," said Dad. "Then maybe you've learned something."
That was it. Nothing more was said of the subject, although I did get a few raised eyebrows and knowing looks from them for the next few weeks. Julie and I spent the rest of the morning on a long pilgrimage to the store for bagels and other breakfast items. When I told her of my early-morning exchange with the Folks, she said, "That's all they said? Wow. You got off easy." Lessons learned: don't drink in front of the folks, and too much champagne is a bad thing.
There was an unwritten code in our family that allowed us kids, at or around age 18, to partake in adult beverages...within reason and with proper parental invitation. At age 16, I pushed my luck by ignoring the age, reason, and invitation requirements. But around the time of my high school graduation, Dad asked if I'd like a glass of wine with dinner. "Um, okay..." I said, waiting for the punchline. Lunch at the shop was occasionally had at a local dive bar, complete with pitchers of beer. Dad started getting an additional glass for me. While pouring, he'd say, "If you get caught by the bartender, it's your own fault." Certainly acceptable terms to me.
When Peter and Betsy got married, and as with many Ruszel weddings, the reception continued into the night at our house. Having learned my lesson from the previous wedding reception, and having been properly exposed to the unwritten code, I kept to moderate consumption. As the evening wore on and guests trickled away, Dad and I found ourselves sitting in the living room together. We'd finished our beers and Dad made the suggestion that we search for replacements. Dad huddled close to me and gave instructions, "Mom's cleaning up in the kitchen, so we shouldn't go there. I'll sneak out and check the coolers in the backyard, you see if there's anything left in the garage coolers." We headed off on our patrols and met up in the dining room a few minutes later, empty handed. Dad gave new instructions, "I'll check in the fridge, you see if there's anything in the pantry."
Dad was on his knees, digging through the refrigerator. Mom asked him, "What are you looking for?"
"Nothing in particular."
A moment later he turned and held a 20-ounce bottle of Japanese beer that had been given to him from our neighbor, Don. Grinning from ear to ear he called out to me, "Hey Tim! Look what I found!" His smile soon faded as Mom took the bottle from his hand and placed it back in the refrigerator.
"I think you boys have had enough for tonight."
With that, our quest for the last beer came to an abrupt end. There was no protest, no argument from us. We knew we were beaten and had to just resign ourselves for the evening. Dad put his arm around me, "We tried. I guess we better just call it a night, huh?" With that a new lesson was learned: be careful around Mom.
I've come to realize that the real lessons learned are: 1) it's important to drink in moderation; 2) don't flaunt privilege; and (the most important) 3) it's much more enjoyable to drink in the companionship of others you know and love. Sometimes we need to push our limits to learn those lessons the hard way, and blessings to Aunt Sylvia for fondly remembering my comeuppance.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Library Days
Dad loved books. Books of all kinds – science books, biographies, “shoot-em ups”, as he called them, mysteries -- you name it, he read it. There were always multiple books lying face down, opened to the page where Dad left off, in various places throughout the house. When he found a book particularly interesting, he enthusiastically passed it around for all of us to enjoy. Or, if he really, really liked it he bought copies for everyone. He was thrilled when the first Barnes & Noble opened nearby, and he made trips there frequently, buying a half dozen books at a time. His (and Mom’s) enthusiasm for learning and enjoyment through reading was inherited by all seven of us children in a very strong way.
At the library, we’d all split up to go to our various areas of interest. I remember the progression I made as the years went on: starting out in the children’s section with the cool miniature wire chairs with colored seat cushions, to the young adults, to the adult fiction – which was upstairs! I once bumped into Dad up there when I was about 12, and he said, “Hey, what are you doing up here?” Uh oh – I thought I was caught! I replied, “Um, looking for a book”, “Oh, ok.” was his reply, and he moved on.
When the library staff announced closing time over the loudspeaker, we’d all bring our newly-found books to the counter to check them out. We would meet at a central table and read until the whole group was finished, and we’d happily pile back into the blue Volkswagen bus with our individual stacks of treasures for the drive home. Inevitably, the bus took control of Dad at the Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream store, and it pulled into the parking lot there so Dad could treat us all to ice cream cones. We brought home Oregon Blackberry in a sugar cone for Mom.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The "Dad Face"
Dad instilled in all us kids a good understanding of DIY and would often ask the question "why pay someone when you can do it yourself?" All projects involved his children and we all learned new skills from the experiences. Some of them came by default (like me, at age 7, being the obvious choice for dragging wires or soldering copper pipe in the crawlspace since I was the smallest), and others came out of sheer necessity of whoever was nearest. Then there was the Christmas where we all made our gifts. I know there were economic reasons for doing that, but it has come to be one of my most cherished memories. Dad made two gifts for everyone: one "real" and one gag. My daughters have inherited the Car with Square Wheels that Dad had made for me. "That car is crazy!" was Sophie's comment.
Before Ruszel Woodworks was relocated to Benicia, it was operated out of the garage. One of my first jobs was to run out in the street and check for traffic so we could feed 20' pine planks through the planer. Half-way through the planing process I'd have to run into the house to catch the plank as it came out the other side, in the kitchen. When the shop did move to a warehouse location, we fashioned our own square "tubes" for the dust collector out of particleboard; it was cheaper than PVC. When the shop outgrew the warehouse and moved to a larger facility, Dad looked around to find a contractor to remove all the old railroad track that was dug into the property. They required a sizable amount of money to break apart the track, but they'd haul it away for free. So he employed Peter and me to spend a few weeks over a hot summer breaking apart railroad track. And Peter single-handedly replaced a few hundred broken window panes.
When Paula and I moved to our new house a few years ago, we upgraded not only the square footage of the house, but also more than doubled the size of the garage. That meant that I could have a bigger woodshop AND have room for Paula to park her car. I've been adding tools as jobs require them: air compressor and nail guns when we put in new hardwood floors, a new tablesaw when I was building cabinets. Paula has surprised me on more than a few occasions with an assortment of new equipment. It's an efficient, compact little shop. Of course, every time I fire up the saw I see Dad standing across from me, arms at his side, on his face a gesture of concern: gritting his teeth with an exaggerated frown. When I worked at the shop that face was present while I used any machinery and it really bothered me. I felt it was a gesture of mistrust. I've come to realize that he always trusted me; he just knew that the use of any machinery included some level of danger and wanted me to be aware of his concern. His face was his way of reminding me of all the things he taught me: watch the blade, stand to the side of the feed, always unplug it when doing any kind of maintenance, and, most importantly and often repeated: "Be careful!". While he taught us all to do it ourselves, part of that bargain was that we couldn't get hurt in the process. His gesture of concern will always be with me and I'm very grateful for the reminder, even though I always think "Yes, Dad, I'll be careful" in the slightly sarcastic voice of a 17-year-old.
Mom and Dad came out to visit a few years ago and he brought me a nice collection of hand tools. "Every shop needs to have these" he said, presenting them to me wrapped in a paper bag—official Polish wrapping paper. I showed him some of the things that I'd built for the house, including a new coffee table for the living room. I'd wandered into the kitchen to fetch a few beers and returned to find Dad laying on the floor, looking underneath the coffee table. I asked if he was okay.
"Of course. I just needed to make sure my boy built it right, and you did. Nice work." Talk about a big compliment. I started to tell him how I had to jerry-rig some of the cuts to get the legs properly tapered. I stopped when he started making that Dad Face...
Before Ruszel Woodworks was relocated to Benicia, it was operated out of the garage. One of my first jobs was to run out in the street and check for traffic so we could feed 20' pine planks through the planer. Half-way through the planing process I'd have to run into the house to catch the plank as it came out the other side, in the kitchen. When the shop did move to a warehouse location, we fashioned our own square "tubes" for the dust collector out of particleboard; it was cheaper than PVC. When the shop outgrew the warehouse and moved to a larger facility, Dad looked around to find a contractor to remove all the old railroad track that was dug into the property. They required a sizable amount of money to break apart the track, but they'd haul it away for free. So he employed Peter and me to spend a few weeks over a hot summer breaking apart railroad track. And Peter single-handedly replaced a few hundred broken window panes.
When Paula and I moved to our new house a few years ago, we upgraded not only the square footage of the house, but also more than doubled the size of the garage. That meant that I could have a bigger woodshop AND have room for Paula to park her car. I've been adding tools as jobs require them: air compressor and nail guns when we put in new hardwood floors, a new tablesaw when I was building cabinets. Paula has surprised me on more than a few occasions with an assortment of new equipment. It's an efficient, compact little shop. Of course, every time I fire up the saw I see Dad standing across from me, arms at his side, on his face a gesture of concern: gritting his teeth with an exaggerated frown. When I worked at the shop that face was present while I used any machinery and it really bothered me. I felt it was a gesture of mistrust. I've come to realize that he always trusted me; he just knew that the use of any machinery included some level of danger and wanted me to be aware of his concern. His face was his way of reminding me of all the things he taught me: watch the blade, stand to the side of the feed, always unplug it when doing any kind of maintenance, and, most importantly and often repeated: "Be careful!". While he taught us all to do it ourselves, part of that bargain was that we couldn't get hurt in the process. His gesture of concern will always be with me and I'm very grateful for the reminder, even though I always think "Yes, Dad, I'll be careful" in the slightly sarcastic voice of a 17-year-old.
Mom and Dad came out to visit a few years ago and he brought me a nice collection of hand tools. "Every shop needs to have these" he said, presenting them to me wrapped in a paper bag—official Polish wrapping paper. I showed him some of the things that I'd built for the house, including a new coffee table for the living room. I'd wandered into the kitchen to fetch a few beers and returned to find Dad laying on the floor, looking underneath the coffee table. I asked if he was okay.
"Of course. I just needed to make sure my boy built it right, and you did. Nice work." Talk about a big compliment. I started to tell him how I had to jerry-rig some of the cuts to get the legs properly tapered. I stopped when he started making that Dad Face...
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Collected Words of JPR
I'm interviewing for jobs now, and last week, a prospective boss described the job he was filling as "mostly 'management by walking around.'" It made me laugh inside. Dad loved to collect phrases and use them in appropriate -- or inappropriate -- moments. He'd had a fling with participatory management in the early nineties, and I'm sure he had recognized his own management style in the jargon of the day: "management by walking around." Except when he said it, it came out as "walking around with your hands in your pockets." You gotta appreciate the translation. "Hands in your pockets" means "not operating the tools yourself." That had a very specific meaning for Dad.
Similarly, he'd absconded the Marty Feldman line from "Young Frankenstein": the one where Marty's Igor leads Doctor Frankenstein from the train station. I'm sure you've laughed many times at the sight of Igor, hunched over, urging the Doctor to "walk this way," and Gene Wilder follows him, and imitates his hunch-backed lurch, as well. But when Dad said it, it came out as "Walk like this!" which was actually funnier, because it added a third comic actor to the skit: the limping John Ruszel.
We had a little debate during our funeral preparations, wondering whether to include Dad's signature dinner statement in our public remembrances of him. He'd sit at the head of the table, crowded with family, guests, plates, dishes, and glasses, and remark loudly, as if to himself, "I wonder what the poor people are doing!" The comment always made Mom cringe, and the assembled family groan, and some of our dinner company undoubtedly found his words insensitive. But we knew what he meant: he was content, and grateful.
We realized as adults that one of Dad's favorite ways to express his displeasure was by attributing it to Mom. "Your mother is unhappy about..." or "Your mother is upset that...." was usually a mirror of Dad's feelings. After a couple of confusing conversations with Mom which ended up with "I never said that..." and "But Dad said...", we figured it out. Dad had his own communication style, which, while unorthodox, was very effective.
I'm enjoying the way Dad is appearing in my life these days. In fact, I'm thinking about his advice constantly as I wait for the job possibilities to align themselves into my future. "All you can do," he'd say, "is go until you hit a brick wall." And seriously. What else can you do?
Similarly, he'd absconded the Marty Feldman line from "Young Frankenstein": the one where Marty's Igor leads Doctor Frankenstein from the train station. I'm sure you've laughed many times at the sight of Igor, hunched over, urging the Doctor to "walk this way," and Gene Wilder follows him, and imitates his hunch-backed lurch, as well. But when Dad said it, it came out as "Walk like this!" which was actually funnier, because it added a third comic actor to the skit: the limping John Ruszel.
We had a little debate during our funeral preparations, wondering whether to include Dad's signature dinner statement in our public remembrances of him. He'd sit at the head of the table, crowded with family, guests, plates, dishes, and glasses, and remark loudly, as if to himself, "I wonder what the poor people are doing!" The comment always made Mom cringe, and the assembled family groan, and some of our dinner company undoubtedly found his words insensitive. But we knew what he meant: he was content, and grateful.
We realized as adults that one of Dad's favorite ways to express his displeasure was by attributing it to Mom. "Your mother is unhappy about..." or "Your mother is upset that...." was usually a mirror of Dad's feelings. After a couple of confusing conversations with Mom which ended up with "I never said that..." and "But Dad said...", we figured it out. Dad had his own communication style, which, while unorthodox, was very effective.
I'm enjoying the way Dad is appearing in my life these days. In fact, I'm thinking about his advice constantly as I wait for the job possibilities to align themselves into my future. "All you can do," he'd say, "is go until you hit a brick wall." And seriously. What else can you do?
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