ONE OF THE GIFTS THAT I GOT FROM MY FATHER
Sharon Robinson Mock

Unlike my mother's constant, enthusiastic, schmaltzy displays of affection, my father's love and support seemed to be more sophisticated, more selective. I wasn't aware of it at the time, of course, but, the consistent low- key attention that he gave me in lieu of gobs of overt adoration, showed me that love comes in a full range of colours, shapes. and degrees of intensity. Over a lifetime, this meting out of attention also taught me the value of patience.

When I was young, every single week day, my father, who worked in a family business, would arrive home at 5: 30. I'm certainly NOT saying that I was ignored by him, but, if I told you that he scooped me up and made a fuss over me as soon as he walked in the door, I'd be deliberately turning this piece into a modern-day fairy tale. Most every week day, after my dad took off his suit jacket and washed up, our family unit of four ( I have a brother, 5 years my junior ) would eat dinner together. Frankly, I can't remember those meals being anything less than really pleasant. And, fun, because, along with my parents' blatant affection for one another and obvious respect for their children, my father was blessed with a good sense of humour and the ability to tell a great story. While we ate, no problems were discussed with him, no problems worked through, in fact, there appeared to be no problems at all. And, that, now that I think about it, could have been part of the problem for yours truly. I'm not positive, but, think I longed for more substantial content.

Most every evening after dinner, still dressed in his good trousers, dress shirt and knotted tie, my father would make his way to his favourite easy chair where he would read, write, or do crossword puzzles until it was time to retire. I don't remember him spending any significant time with me after we all got up from the dinner table. At least, that is what I remember of those days.

And then there were Saturdays and Sundays. Practically every single weekend, the four of us would go on little adventures in, and around, Montreal, where we lived. Again, always pleasant, but, again, I can not remember a solitary one-on-one, life-altering conversation. Bottom line ? Somehow, all of that, " family- together time ", wasn't enough ! I definitely was enjoying the ice-cream, but I was missing the sprinkles. Sprinkles that, I subconsciously decided, ONLY my father could supply. But, for whatever the reason, he simply wasn't doing it.

I grew older, and, slightly wiser. While the family dynamics didn't change dramatically, it seemed that the role that my father played in my life, quietly fleshed out . This metamorphosis played itself out in stages. In a myriad of gentle, subtle, impressive ways, my father finally covered my scoops of ice-cream with those desired sprinkles. And, all the while, I discovered that the man was much, much MORE than that formally dressed father who just sat in his easy chair for hours, not reaching out to me, or to the world around him.

When I was a young teen, my father was one of the movers and shakers who put together a huge Arts and Letters Festival that involved hundreds and hundreds of Montreal's most creative youth. I was standing in the wings of the stage, waiting for my father to begin his role as the m.c. of the Festival's Spelling Bee, when, I just happened to overhear a conversation he was having with a woman who served on this particular committee with him. " My daughter should be competing in this. Nobody her age loves and appreciates the power of words quite as much as she. Mind you, one word at a time isn't her style, exactly. She's fabulous at offering up PARAGRAPHS at a time, ALL the time, but still.....".

The day I turned eighteen, my father was busy running a blood donor clinic that he had organized for his fellow Masonic brothers. I turned up, unannounced, prepared to give blood for the first time. My father had been a blood donor for years and years by this time, and I felt that following in his footsteps would be worthwhile. Without making a huge fuss, or missing a single beat, he immediately introduced me to everyone there. " This is my daughter Sharon. Today is her 18th. birthday. It seems that merely RECEIVING gifts today isn't enough for her. She's decided to be a gift GIVER as well."

In my twenties, a student nurse at the time, my parents and I attended what was to be a musical evening at our synagogue. Minutes before the show was to begin, I was approached by one of the programme's chairmen. " The show's host just called. He won't be able to make it . ( If he gave me a reason, I don't remember now what it was) Your father tells us that you have a really good singing voice, a great sense of humour, and have exceptional leadership skills. Here's the microphone. Have a good time."

In my thirties, married and living in Windsor, I was "Frumah Sarah" in an amateur production of " Fiddler on The Roof. " My mother came into town a few days before the performance, but, my father, who had some important company business to attend to, flew in from Montreal just hours before the opening curtain, and left on the first plane flying out of Windsor the following morning.

When, in my forties, I ran for, and lost, a position of Alderman in Windsor's Municipal Elections, my father comforted me the next day. " Win, or lose, you'll always be a winner in my eyes. "

My beloved father died when he was 88 and I was 55. Thirty plus years of being a grandfather, and ten years of being a great grandfather, had changed him noticeably. He had become emotionally, physically and verbally, utterly delectable,

The day after he died, my mother handed me his wallet and asked me to go through it just in case there was something in it that would prove to be important. Buried under photos of my brother and I, were several dog-eared, brittle, brown-tinged newspaper clippings of pieces that had appeared in one of Montreal's newspapers many, many years before. They were various reviews of then-popular children's books . Written by Sharon Robinson - Age 7. Age seven !! There was now every reason to believe that he originally read, and then cut out, those short articles while sitting alone, in his easy chair, wearing his good trousers, dress shirt, and still-knotted tie. And, while it had taken a long, long while, I was finally able to figured out that, all the while I thought he was simply enjoying well-earned down time, at times he was also lending me his support in the only way that he knew how to, back then. Way back then In those years before he learned how to put words and actions to his feelings for me.

Thank you, for the sprinkles, Daddy !! The ice-cream has melted, but the taste of those bits of colourful sweetness will remain with me forever.

November 30, 1996 Carl Loeb interview of Bessie Robinson Loeb Bondy

the old country their name was Yecht (9 seconds) NEW on YouTube

My grandfather was a Chasidic Jew (9 seconds) NEW on YouTube