Hi Dad

Last night I had a dream.  I believe that we comfort ourselves in dreams and learn from them.  Also, I'd like to believe that dreams are ways in which we are touched from other dimensions of experience, so last night I believe that I heard from my dad. 

In the dream I was traveling on a bus to one of my childhood homes in Bergen Beach, Brooklyn.  However, I was not traveling inside the bus, but hanging on the side poised on a ridge.  The bus driver asked if my parents would be upset if they knew how I was riding and I said, "yes."  When I got to the bus stop, which I recognized from memories of taking the bus to that location many times in my youth, I instructed the bus driver to let me off.  As I started to walk away from the bus, he called to me and said I'd left my brief case and bag behind.  So, this was a grownup me.

I continued to walk the streets (Avenue U in Brooklyn) to where we lived.  When I reached our street, nothing looked the same.  Everything had been reconstructed and looked bigger and stranger.  When I got to my house, the whole facade was open and under construction.  My dad was standing in what would have been the living room and said, "how do you like it?  Isn't it cool?"  At the end of the driveway, blocking access to the driveway, were three concrete structures.  Each one house a concrete object:  in the first was a sports car, in the second were a giant pair of sneakers and I can't remember what was in the third.  Dad explained that eventually, these structures would house the "real things."  My father always dreamed of having a mercedes sports convertible and lived most of his adult life in sneakers.  I'm assuming the third structure was for him..

After I entered the house, my dad was no longer there, but a younger version of my mother was, and she seemed frantic because the house was such a mess.  She was dealing with someone (a neighbor?  a worker?) and she was explaining that the house didn't usually look so messy. 

Then it seemed that she was supposed to babysit someone and I said that it would be impossible under the chaotic circumstances, but she said that it would be OK and the parent should just bring the child over. 

That's all I recall of the dream. 

Seeing my dad again was great.  I miss him so much.  Seeing a younger version of my mom was also great.  I think it's obvious that their house was transitioning to the structures in the driveway which looked like giant sepulchres. 

Bye Dad

Blogging is good.  I look back on some of these entries and I learn so much about the process I've been through and about my parents.  Now, my dear sweet loving talented dad is gone.  And my mom is with me.  And I will honor his love and memory with the best love and care that I can give her.  It's what I can do.

We gave him the best care we could . . . and when his poor wracked body could stand no more, we gave him the best send-off that we could, with so much love.  He was SO loved.

So I share here the words I shared at the memorial service yesterday.  I was so very moved by all the loving family, friends and colleagues who showed up to say goodbye to my dad and to honor him.  He deserved every word of praise and every salute that he received.  My son-in-law, Mike, will take the flag that was presented to my mother (what a touching moment) and make sure it is properly stored and loved.

Today my mom shed some tears (first time if you can believe it) and it bolstered my resolve to make sure that my dad's intention to care for her will be my intention.  He speaks now through me and I have no doubt about what he would want.

Life is demanding and difficult, but we are human beings, and the love we take is equal to the love we make. 

Dad's Eulogy

I actually wrote this some months back, when my father wasn’t ill, or so we thought.   I was inspired to write about him and put it away because I knew that when the time came I wouldn’t be able to get any coherent words on paper. 

As anyone who knew my father will confirm, he was quite a character.  A wonderful – larger than life, loving, passionate character. 

Thomas Edison had nothing on my dad.

Few people realize that Joseph Maliandi had 17 patents listed with the U.S. Library of Congress, developed when he had his own photographic manufacturing business.

 He was inventive. 

And that spirit of invention extended to his oral autobiography — he could have taken a few patents out on the highly original and wonderfully creative stories he loved to tell us about his life. Like . . . that he played minor league baseball, and was first on the field when the umpire shouted "Play ball!" Oh!  And that he worked as an extra in Hollywood westerns, after having learned to ride horses in the days when he was stationed on the West Coast in the Navy. While records exist to prove he indeed served in the Navy, the rest is a bit harder to pin down. But no matter -- the way the light danced in his eyes when he spoke told us that these tales were real to him and part of who he was.  A great storyteller.  Someone who saw himself as larger than his life, and so he truly was.

 His nickname - Buddy - was no random label. No one who ever met my father ever walked away saying anything less than “What a great guy!” You immediately wanted to be his friend. He immediately became your Buddy.

He started out in life wanting to be a song and dance man. It was noted in his autograph book when he graduated from middle school. His dreams were nurtured by his idols, Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra. And in turn, when I was growing up, my dreams were nurtured by my father's songs.

No matter the occasion or situation, my father had a song for it. It was his way of expressing how he felt. When my daughter Lee got married, my then 78-year-old father got up on stage with the orchestra and rendered a very touching version of “Try A Little Tenderness,” which he had lovingly rehearsed at home for weeks before. No one who was at that wedding will ever forget that moment. It was the greatest gift he could have given to his granddaughter — the pure, melodious expression of his love.

Then there was a moment just a few years ago when he got up on stage at the senior center where he lived, as part of a musical revue of classic Tin Pan Alley songwriters like Johnny Mercer, and sang a version of “Accentuate the Positive” that no one will every forget.  Because that was my dad. 

Especially in his later years he was relentlessly positive in the face of some pretty tough stuff. He was a survivor of two kinds of cancer and a triple bypass. But my dad hardly ever let anyone know that he might be sad or in pain. 

He was frustrated.  He retired from his business of inventing and manufacturing photographic equipment just around the time that the digital era was chasing all his business paradigms out the door.  But, even after retirement, he tried and tried to learn to use a computer and drove us all a little crazy with his own “inventive” ways with technology.  Enough said.

My dad was a lifesaver. He would help anyone, anytime. He literally saved my life when I was a kid when I was drowning at Rockaway Beach. Not a flamboyantly muscular man, he summoned everyone ounce of strength to propel himself through undertow and impossibly strong surf to reach out and grab me and my friend who had been dragged out beyond the point at which we could stand. I always called it the “leap of love.”

I've always said that he spoiled me for any other men because he became, for me, the model of what a man should be, and few measured up to his example. 

My dad was a lover. Recently, in the course of expressing frustration with their situation and my mother’s stubborn determination to live independently, without assistance,  I asked him to be tougher with her and not to give in to her demands. And he told me, “Honey, I love her. She’s the love of my life. I can’t be any other way.”  

And truly, he couldn’t be any other way -- as he was with me. He was always there with extra everything – hugs, love and now and then some spare cash saved from what he called his “allowance.” “Don’t tell your mother,” he would say, in a conspiracy of love between us.

The sight of his great grandchildren, Lucy and Molly, would bring him figuratively and literally to his knees.  It was always such a joy to see him down on the floor playing with the girls – Scrabble or whatever they wanted to play – or pushing Molly’s bike along the sidewalk.  He would summon every ounce of strength that he still had, and it never seemed like an effort.

I often found myself wondering how he got to be such a generous and happy fellow. And I took a lesson from this. My father was an only child – the only SON – of two doting Italian parents, Nick and Pauline.  He was the apple of their eye.  My Nana called him JOJO. How tough it must have been to send him off, at age 19, to World War II.  But her love – their love – was unconditional.  And my father learned that love from them.  Whatever he had, he gave to my mother, to me and to the rest of our family.

And now, I'd like to think he's singing his heart out somewhere, perhaps comparing musical notes with Frank and Gene, Bing and Judy. Maybe he's enjoying a ride on Pegasus, twirling a rope just like he did in those Hollywood westerns. Or he's in the on-deck circle, taking some practice swings in the Interstellar League. And the umpire motions to him. "Buddy," he says, "play ball!"

Forgetting Mom

Watching Wimbledon today and being very invested emotionally in the relationship between Andy Murray, who would become the first Brit in 27 years to win Wimbledon, and his mother - in the stands - dutifully  worrying, and "there" for her son.  I'd followed the story.  A nasty divorce and the mother who brought him up, "taught him everything," according to the commentators.

So, when his big win came against the #1 tennis player in the world, Novak Djokovic, I watched as Andy ingested all the praise, the applause, and then watched as he made his way up to the "family box," where his coach, girlfriend, friends - and his mother - were applauding.  I watched as he made his way across the first row of his closest fans, giving hugs to all.  Then I watched as he turned his back on the box and proceeded to head down to the court for the ceremony.  It was only that his mother "squealed," as he put it, that turned him around to acknowledge her presence, to give her a hug for the many years of sacrifice and caring that brought him to this moment.

So why was I disappointed in Andy?  What in the world, as a mom,  did I expect from this young man who'd just accomplished something that is historic, something that will give his mom (and dad, though we don't hear much about him) a lifetime of pride.  What do we expect, as Moms, from our kids?  Is it eternal reverence and appreciation?  And do we deserve it? Does the basic choice of becoming a mother and putting in the hours of care, concern, support and love - does it entitle us to that big "thanks mom" at the end of the day?  at the end of the play?  at the end of the tournament?

When I was a young actress, I never walked off the stage thinking about either of my parents.  If I was congratulated for a good performance then, and even now, I thank myself.  But I guess I wonder how much of myself is a tribute to them?  I'm sure there are a lot of kids out there who are clearly on both sides of this discussion - those who love, respect and feel that they "owe" something to their parents, and those who feel that they have accomplished it all on their own.

I am somewhere in the middle.  But if I'd been Andy Murray's mom at that historic moment in history which belonged to him . . . I think I would've still been a little hurt that he forgot me. 

NOW!

Anyone over the age of forty has seen dramatic changes in the workplace.  Typewriters went away.  Fax machines will soon become a thing of the past.  Don't get me wrong - I don't know how we lived with correctype and carbon paper and all the other now archaic tools that we used on a daily basis.

It's all changed, but is the instant "just add water" workplace better? 

At the risk of sounding like a geezer, I believe that something has been lost in the process - the great benefit of reflection to the creative process.

Example -  some years ago, as Advertising and Promotion Director for WOR Radio, I met periodically with our advertising agency to brainstorm campaigns and ads.  We'd meet around a conference table with physical comps spread before us.  We'd discuss them and suggest changes.  The account exec would take notes (with a pen on paper) and we'd decide to reconvene in a week after their creative team could reflect on our reactions and suggestions and make the changes.  After a week, we'd meet again and the changes would be reviewed, accepted or not, and we'd proceed.  They'd go back to their shop, prepare the finals for submission and placement in the various publications (print) or other applications.

Sometimes the whole process would shockingly take a month.  But at the end of that process, we were satisfied that we had all pooled our creativity and best thinking into these important representations of the business.

These days, this process can take place in one hour or less.  Is the product better?  In some cases, it's probably just as good.  But, in some cases, the essence of the product is distorted by the lack of reflection on the distinct nature of the ad or the understanding of the audience.  Also, comparative analysis of competition in our instant world does not always contribute positively to the product's unique sales proposition and gets muddled in efforts to "out position" the competition.

Having just gone through medical mania myself, I know only too well how our instant world has benefited diagnostics, treatment and even communication with the patient.  We don't wait for weeks for analysis.  Biopsies are instantly completed in the operating room so that procedures can move forward.  This is obviously a great benefit unless someone with greater understanding that I can show me that there's a down side.   And there are probably countless other examples in other fields where technology has shortened processes in beneficial ways.

Where I see the greatest disadvantage is mostly in the creative disciplines where reflection and meditation on an idea, a decision, an image can only make the ultimate product better.   The need to react and decide instantly can produce "knee jerk" solutions, ones that do not capture all the creative possibilities.  So, we see a lot of product mediocrity.  My good friend Mike, a gifted professional photographer, will rant about how instant photography and the availability of software has inspired every person with a phone to create and publish mostly awful photography believing that's all it takes.  It's great that we can capture every moment of our lives instantly, but this technology and instant availability has diminished the understanding and appreciation of the beauty and art of a fine photograph.

Think about how long Michelangelo hung from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.