As I thought about the Father’s Day prompt, What My Father Told Me, I realized that, to be honest, he hadn’t told me much. My father was very successful in his work, very funny, and a provider both to his immediate family and to the less successful members of his and my mother’s extended families. He was wonderful with very young children. I always felt he should have been a pediatrician rather than a radiologist. As I watched him tell stories, sing, and play simple games with my nieces, nephews, and my own children, I could vaguely recall him doing that with me when I was little. But he was always something of a mystery to me, especially as I grew older. What I know about him came from my mother and older cousins. He never liked to talk about himself and as my siblings and I moved beyond childhood he never liked to talk much to us about anything.
A few years ago I wrote this scenario, an imagined conversation that could have transpired between my father and any one of his grandchildren. I wrote it as a chronicle of his story and a way of reminding his grandchildren who he was. I sent it to my older niece who said it was spot on and made her tear up. Even though I am a writer who prefers to make readers laugh, I felt it was a successful piece.
A Conversation
“Poppa, tell me a story”
Okay. What kind of story?
“A happy story.”
A story now or a story long ago?
“Long ago.”
Okay, let me see. Once upon a time….
“No, not Once upon a time. That’s silly.”
I cannot tell a story that does not begin with Once upon a time.
“Oh, okaaay.”
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a little boy who lived in a tiny village far, far away. He lived with his Mama, Papa, and baby sister. The family was very poor but very happy. The Papa built things like chairs and tables and the Mama made wonderful food to put on their table and she milked the cow and made everyone’s clothes.
“The Mama did a lot more than the Papa.”
Maybe but the Papa read great books and thought great thoughts and that takes time. He also shared what he learned with the Mama and the little boy. But not the baby sister yet.
“Of course not. That would be silly to share with the baby.”
Yes, it would be silly. But one day the Papa came home and said that they had to leave the village. Although they had many friends and family in the village, there were also people who did not like them. The Papa was afraid these people would hurt his family.
“Why didn’t they like the family? They sound nice.”
Some people do not like people who look a different from them and do things a little differently than they do. The little boy’s family looked a little different, ate different foods, said different prayers, and celebrated different holidays.
“That’s a stupid reason not to like someone. This is NOT a happy story, Poppa”
Just wait, little one. Yes, it is stupid. But the Papa was frightened for his family so they came to America, to New York City.
“I went to New York City once. Do you think I saw the little boy and his family?”
No, remember. This was long, long ago. In the old country the little boy had long, curly hair, short pants, and a toy wooden rifle his father carved. In America, the little boy’s Mama cut his curls, made him long pants, and his Papa gave him books to read. The family was happy again because no one wanted to hurt them. The little boy went to school, lots and lots of school, and became a doctor. That made his family very happy.
“That was a happy story. Do you think Bubbe would tell me a story?”
I think so, if you ask her.
“I don’t know. Bubbe tells me sad stories about two brothers who died. Then she cries.”
Yes. Those stories make us all sad. Does she ever tell happy stories?
“Yes, she tells a story about a little girl who smoked corn silk behind the barn and about a bigger girl – I think she was 12 – who learned to drive by driving her Papa’s car through the cotton fields. Those stories make me laugh and laugh. When I am 12 I will smoke corn silk and drive my Papa’s car through the cotton fields.”
Yes, perhaps you will.
Silence
“Poppa, do you have a favorite song?”
Yes, I do. Do you?
“Yes, it goes ‘Twinkle, twinkle, Rabbi Finkel…’ “
Okay, little one. I know that song. You mustn’t sing that around your Mama or Papa.
“Sing me your favorite song, Poppa.”
Okay. It goes ‘Leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, babe I hate to go. My bags are packed, I’m ready to go, taxi’s waiting it’s blowing its horn hmmmumum, hmmmumum, hmmmumum I hate to wake you up to say goodbye, hmmmumum, hmmmumum’
“Poppa! You always hmmmumum when you can’t remember the words. That’s a sad song. Why is it your favorite?”
When your Mama was little I had to travel a lot and I was always sad to leave her. The song reminds me of when she was little. When I came home she was always so happy to see me. So it reminds me of being happy with her, too.
“Do you know a happy song?”
Okay, let me see. How about ‘Mama’s taking us to the zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow. Mama’s taking us to the zoo tomorrow and we can stay all day hmmmumum, hmmmumum, hmmmumum We’re going to the zoo, zoo, zoo, how about you, you, you, you can come too, too, too. We’re going to the zoo, zoo, zoo, hmmmumum, hmmmumum, hmmmumum’
“Oh, Poppa, can we go to the zoo tomorrow?”
Yes, perhaps we can.
Silence
Silence
“Poppa, do you like painted pictures?”
Yes, I do.
“Do you have a favorite painted picture?”
Let me see. Yes, I do.
“What does it look like?”
It is a painting of a sky filled with hundreds and hundreds of stars. It is a beautiful picture of a dark blue sky with so many stars.
“Why is it your favorite?”
I guess because when I was growing up in the city I didn’t see many stars so when I saw a sky with so many stars I couldn’t believe it. It was wonderful. That painting reminds me of the first time I saw so many stars.
“Maybe some day you will take me to see that painted picture and it will be my favorite, too.”
Yes, perhaps we will.
Silence
Silence
“Poppa, my eyes keep shutting, even when I don’t want them to.”
Yes, little one. It’s time to sleep.
Silence
Silence
Silence
“Poppa, I love you”
Sleep tight, little one.
Jacqueline Miller
Lovely story, and so much between the lines. It seems there is a recurring theme that fathers didn’t share too much, or talk about tough times. And yet there is so much there, and so precious when they do speak.
Yes, it does seem to be a theme of Dad’s in the ’50s Father Knows Best era. I’m hoping our sons will be better at it as fathers.
Such an original way to describe a loving grandfather. I wish I had been that little girl. (My Zadie only spoke Yiddish and my other grandfather was a bit cold)
My father did teach us a few useful curses in yiddish. They were mostly conversation stoppers when spoken to a grandparent by a 5 year old
What a creative and lovely way to get the essence of your father and his story. You put words into his mouth to communicate the truth. Each year I find out small nuggets of information about my parents and grandparents that they never talked about. I wish I could have had more conversations with them.
I agree. As I became a parent and a grandparent I had so many questions I wished I had asked them (and few apologies I’d like to make such as nothing wrong with asking when you. will be home). through a website called Storyworth my kids asked questions about their Dad’s and my life. I hope through the stories I wrote in response they got some ideas about us.
Thanx Jacqueline for your moving story and your original take on our prompt.
For some the past is painful with no way to tell it to those too young to understand, but you imagine a way. You might want to read a story of mine called OUR SPECIAL GUESTS where one can also read the past between the lines.
Thanks, Dana. I will check that out. Every reader will probably read between the lines differently. Hopefully that could spark some interesting discussions.
Such an interesting way to tell a story, Jacqueline. The long silences, the beginning for a happy story from the Poppa, the truth between the various threads of the story as the child drifts to sleep. You reveal much by telling little.
I actually started it in response to a challenge by a writing teacher to write a personal essay in a different format. I like dialogue as a way to communicate an idea without bashing the reader on the head with it. Dialogue leaves a lot to interpretation. I tried writing a play or two and found writing exclusively in dialogue really hard.
I love the sweet exchange you imagined between your father and his grandchild. Your story creates a legacy for your father and the things he wished to share, even if it was hard for him to do so.
I hopes it also brings a memory or two back for them. He did sing those songs to them. I even have a scratchy tapes of both of those two songs, replete with the hummmms that someone made. Makes me laugh every time I listen to it.
I love your imagined conversation. I could hear it being spoken in my head as I read it. Very sweet. Interesting that you thought he should have been a pediatrician rather than a radiologist because he was so good with children. My father, a general practitioner, had infinite patience with his patients who were children, less so with his own children. Maybe your father could be so playful with the children in your family because he didn’t have to deal with them in his practice.
Thanks, Suzy. I also think he was better. with his grandchildren because he could always hand them back to their parents. I’m sure that’s why we grandparents can spoil our grandkids a bit!
Thanks for this wonderful dialogue. If you get a chance, look for the book, My Grandson Lew by Charlotte Zolotow. The whole book is a dialogue.
Thanks for reading and commenting. I will look for the book. I like to communicate with my grandchildren with stories by text (two live in England and a new one in LA) and. I’m always looking for examples
Creative and lovely. Fiction must fill in where memory cannot go!