A Salute to My Father on the Occasion of His 80th Birthday

My relationship with my father has had its ups and downs, and that is putting it mildly! My relationship with my mother was easy for the most part. To be sure, we had our tensions along the way, but generally speaking, she loved me with all her heart, and I loved her with all my heart. There is no "generally speaking" with my father. The relationship has been far more complex. However, I have made a lot of progress in the last few years in coming to terms with the complicated gamut of emotions that I have toward my father. On the occasion of his 80th birthday, I was able to give him this tribute and mean every word of it.

It was easy to know where to begin this little tribute to my 80 year old father. I’ll begin at my beginning on March 3 1951. Recently lots of people on Facebook- it’s a computer thing, Dad, I’ll explain later- were posting the # 1 song in the country on the day they were born. I googled mine- another computer thing, Dad, and the # 1 song in the country on March 3, 1951 was “If” by Perry Como. I know that Dad always liked Perry Como and I thought to myself, “Cool. Dad must have been a very happy camper on March 3. Not only did his first child come into the world at 2:32 PM on that date- thanks, Mom, for the exact time- but also one of his favorite singers had the # 1 song in the country!

They say that children see their parents in a different light as they get older and that’s been the case with me. When I was younger, I noticed the differences between us. Dad was a gifted athlete. I never became much of an athlete. I excelled in the classroom. Dad was disciplined- jogging every day long before it became popular and people really knew what it was. I bet they used to look at him, scratch their heads and wonder, “What in the heck is that guy doing? He’s not walking! He’s not really running. There’s no track around anyway. It’s not a walking. It’s not running. What the heck is that is it that guy’s doing!?? I’ve never never been disciplined enough to jog every day. I fooled around on the tennis court when I was in high school, but I certainly never excelled at the sport like Dad did playing it up until just a couple a years ago. And I didn’t get any further than touch football with the neighborhood kids when I was boy, even though every fall Dad used to toss around the football with me, teach me how to hold it, kick it, run out for a pass and throw it. I remember those times fondly.

Now that I’m an adult I realize how much of my father’s child I really am, though. I love to read the newspaper. Recently someone sent me a picture that was taken while I was on sabbatical in what was then the Soviet Union. I’m reading the newspaper. Dad always loved to read the paper, and I remember it from my earliest years. I’m sure my love of the newspaper comes from Dad. I probably picked up a newspaper even before I could actually read much, mimicking my father’s behavior, as kids do. I love the water and I feel very comfortable in it. Being a Pisces might have something to do with that, but it really comes from Dad. He taught me everything I needed to know to feel comfortable in the water. It’s funny, but I remember the lessons. Dad started off with the doggy paddle, and I remember the lesson. He taught me how to swim, how to float, how to tread water, how to dive, and at Ocean City, how to ride a wave into the shore. I have scenes in my mind of all these lessons. And I am 58 years old, but I love to ride a big wave all the way into the shore.

I have a decent voice. It’s not nearly as good as Dad’s voice- I won’t ever be singing any solos or cutting any records- but it’s good enough to sing in a chorus and the chorus is good enough to have performed, along with many other choruses, on the stage of Carnegie Hall for a benefit for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Dad was always singing around the house, and Robin, Sherry, Mark and I do the same thing. My voice and love of singing comes from Dad.

The love of newspapers, the love of the water and the love of singing are three great legacies that come from my father. I’ve thanked him in letters for these before, and I’ll take this occasion to thank him publicly once more.

And there’s one more thing I’d like to thank Dad for. I know from friends that some fathers try to relive the glory days of their youth on the athletic fields through their children. Some fathers even make their boys feel bad if they don’t turn out to be the athletes that they were. Dad never did that! He knew early on that I was never going to be a football hero, and that was fine with him. He took pride in my accomplishments in the classroom and he never made me feel somehow inferior that I didn’t excel at sports. That was wise parenting and it came instinctively to Dad. I know for a fact that there are boys who will have to carry around the burden of inferiority complexes well into adulthood, because their fathers made them feel somehow unworthy that they did not take much of an interest in or excel at what their fathers did. I never had to deal with that, and it’s because Dad understood that I had my own unique talents, which he respected and nurtured.

I have to tell one story about Dad before I close these remarks. In 1967 when I was only sixteen years old, I went to Germany for six whole weeks. Of course, both Mom and Dad must have been very anxious about sending a sixteen year old abroad, even with a trusted chaperon, for six weeks. Especially back then, communication from abroad was difficult. There were no personal computers, Facebook, or Skype. Of course, people could make transatlantic phone calls, but, for the most part, only rich people called regularly overseas, and even that process was tedious. For six weeks, the only contact I had with my family and friends was through letters, that took a week to arrive.

Interestingly enough it was Dad and not Mom, who seemed more anxious about sending me to Germany for six long weeks. His fears for his firstborn focused on an afternoon excursion that our group was scheduled to make into East Berlin. Of course, we would have to go through the Berlin Wall for this excursion. Dad became fearful that the communists were going to kidnap me "for my mind." "Mickey," he repeatedly told my mother, "They're going to kidnap Kipp, and we'll never see him again!"

When we were on the bus waiting to go through the wall, our guide explained exactly what we happen before we entered East Berlin. Among other scary things, she told us that a soldier with a machine gun would come on to the bus and collect our passports. She told us that they would be reviewed and that this review could take a while. She told us not to bring any Western newspapers or magazines into the country. They were illegal in East Germany and would be confiscated. She told us not to strike up casual conversations on the street with East Berliners. We would not necessarily get into trouble, she explained, but they could. Their government could assume that they were spies simply because they were seen talking with Americans. We were, after all, the Cold War enemy, and they had been repeatedly told that the Wall was built to protect East Berlin, the capital of the German Democratic Republic, from a sudden invasion by West Germany backed up with the armed forces of the United States. I might add that during the Cold War, both sides feared this sudden invasion from the other!

After having scared both the teenagers on the bus and their adult chaperons, she ended her talk with what must have been a very well rehearsed joke. "Don't worry," she concluded, "Nearly 75% of everyone, who goes through the Wall, returns home the very same day!" The bus broke out into a loud nervous laughter. I thought to myself, "Please God! Please let me be one of the 75% or Mom will never hear the end of it!" Needless to say, we spent a fascinating afternoon in East Berlin, and fully 100% of us returned to West Berlin.

Happy 80th birthday, Dad. May we all be here 20 years from now to celebrate your 100th!!

Addendum I: I also want to say that my brother, Mark, Dad's last born, spoke as well. Except for the anecdote about being kidnapped by the communists, everything I said was from notes. Mark spoke extemporaneously, from the heart. He spoke this way at our maternal grandfather's memorial service and at our mother's. Mark has a real gift for speaking from the heart, and I admire him for that. Unfortunately, his wonderful remarks will not likely appear anywhere in writing, but all of us who have heard him speak on any number of occasions hold them dear in our memories.

Addendum II: Unfortunately, there will be no 100th birthday celebration. My Father died at the age of 83 in June of 2013.

Dad and Mom with their first born I am blessed to have a picture of me as a baby in my mother's arms.Reading the newspaper in Moscow. Photo courtesy of Alexandra BakerDad with his first and last born at Christmas of 2010Speaking at Dad's 80th birthday bashDad with his kids and kids-in-lawDad's cake with pictures from his youth and pictures of all of usReading the New York Times while visiting friends in Phoenix, Arizona in December of 2001.