Under the Lemon Tree

My sister closed on her house on Wednesday. And her birthday was Thursday. All this goes to prove, of course, that she is, basically, the center of the universe, and events as we know them sort of just happen... around her.

My parents are taking her out to dinner tonight.

My eldest sister is taking her out to dinner on Sunday.

At some point in the coming week, it will be my turn. Indian food. It's like Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee-- the ceremony just goes on and on and on. A veritable orgy of festive adulation.

Today is my father's birthday. There will not be much festive adulation to be had on his account.

On my way home from work yesterday, I picked up the phone to call him.

"I know you don't really give a shit about this," I said, "but I wanted to wish you a happy early birthday."

"Oh, Mummy," he said, laughing, "that is not... it is not even on my radar. What the fuck do I care about my birthday?"

"Well, I don't know, but I care about it, and it's on my radar. I just hope that you have a good year, that's all."

There was an uncustomary pause.

"Me, too, Mummy. Me, too."

The man's had it rough of late, but he's brought most of it on himself. Still, it doesn't change the fact that a year of chasing around a young baby, and chasing around after that baby's incompetent parents has aged him immeasurably. His attention wanders. He doesn't hear. His eyes sometimes appear vacant. This heretofore indestructable sabra, this Israeli desert warrior, with scars of battle on his shoulder and on his chest, seems to be fading.

Fading from importance.

Fading from view.

Well, from my view, anyway. I hardly ever see the guy anymore, and I live literally 5/10ths of a mile from his front door. Going over to that house fills me with immense sadness, so, generally, I avoid it. Interacting with him brings on depression, frustration, agitation and angst-- and so I avoid that, too.

All he wants to do is talk to me about my sister. And the house she bought, that sits four doors away from ours. It sits, waiting, inertly, unknowingly, waiting for the incomparably incestuous, meddlesome mess that is my family to begin. Well, not begin-- metastasize. It's been this way for a long time-- it's just spreading like a cancer through this formerly taciturn neighborhood. My family is a virus.

Save yourselves. Save the cheerleader.

I never really understood my father, and I suppose that's just as well, because he never understood me either. I can remember being an intrepid, precocious eleven-year-old, banging out obscure scripts in the playroom upstairs, on a tan electric typewriter with dark brown keys. I loved the thrum and the warmth of the electricity surging through the typewriter as I created elaborate interactions between primarily middle-aged male characters who behaved in a farcical way. I would eagerly present them to my father, who began to learn English as a youth in Israel by watching John Wayne movies, and he would read these things with a look of utter consternation.

That man didn't know what the fuck I was about. And I couldn't help but reciprocate.

I couldn't fathom the things that were important to him-- a business selling girdles and other undergarments for fat ladies and athletes. Business trips to Virginia and out west. I didn't get it. I didn't understand why he was so fixated on me learning math. And when we would do math homework together and he would take out his old Texas Instruments Galaxy 40x calculator (which he kept in its original vinyl slide case) two thoughts immediately leapt to my mind:

1.) I was definitely in for it.

2.) I was most likely adopted.

I mean-- why did a person who was related to me even own something that looked like that?

A couple of weeks ago, a nurse at work loaned me a book called "The Lemon Tree," a story about an Arab family and a Jewish family, and, on a larger scale, the founding of Israel and the grave complications that arose from the creation of a Jewish state. When I finished reading the book, I felt that I had learned more about my father than I had in thirty years of knowing him. I felt like I had finally tasted the dust and the milk and honey and the cordite and the cactus water and the olive juice and the lemon juice of that life he'd left behind.

And, while he'll never stop driving me absolutely crazy, probably even after he's dead, today is his day-- whether gives a fuck about it or not. That man-- oh, God, that man-- he's always on my radar, as I know I'm always on his.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

Little boys think that their fathers are the coolest men in the world. They believe that their fathers have mystical abilities to know the unknown and to do the undoable. They think that their fathers are capable of deeds beyond the capabilities of other, run-of-the-mill men. Little boys cannot conceive of any sort of fatherly imperfection, personality flaw, or inadequacy. Though they often cling and clutch to their mommies for safety and security, comfort and calmness; little boys look up to their daddies.

My father left Israel for America thirty-seven years ago. He left behind his parents, his brother and his sisters, his mustache, his culture and his homeland. The only thing he couldn't manage to leave behind was his accent. He would go back the first time because he was ordered to return by the military. The second time he went back, it was to show off his new bride and daughter to his family. Subsequent trips were for darker reasons-- to see his father lie on his deathbed, putting two fingers to his lips, silently asking for a cigarette. To bury his sister, who died by her hand. To say goodbye.

Now his side of the family mostly live in Australia, England and a couple here and there in the U.S. His immediate family has stayed close-- we wouldn't know where to go anyway. He is involved in our daily lives and, though we'd perhaps like to be more grown up sometimes, we're always relieved when he is there to save the day, make a phone call, yell at someone who dares to cross our paths. These are the times when the desert warrior comes out of hiding. He's effectively camoflauged in his button-down shirts and his dress-slacks from day to day, but if you dare mess with his children: watch out. Payback's a bitch, but Israeli payback's worse.

When I was at their house for dessert on Saturday, I asked my parents what time we used to have dinner when I was a kid. I couldn't remember and, for some reason, it popped into my head to ask.

"6:00," my mother said. "We always waited until Daddy got home."

"I was always home for dinner, I made sure of that," my father said.

Yeah. He sure fucking did. He would rise at 5:00am every goddamn day so that he could always be home for dinner-- not exactly the sort of schedule you might expect for someone who ran his own business. He still does it to this day, so that he can be home for dinner with my mother. If you asked me what I admire most about my father, it's that he was always home for dinner.

I'm failing at that now, and I know it. I teach classes at night. I'm at work covering other classes. I'm acting in shows, I'm doing this or that. I try to be home as often as I can for dinner, but I'm not always. Hardly. We always try to do just a little better than our parents did, but I find that I'm doing worse at some things. I've got to try harder. Mrs. Apron needs me. Someday, there will be kids who need me, too.

They'll need me home for dinner.

Being Israeli, my father doesn't give a shit about his birthday. It's meaningless to him. If we didn't all call him up and wish him a happy birthday, I doubt he'd even remember about it until it was over, maybe three or four days later. He was always a man who put us before him, not a selfish bone in his body, and, for someone so exuberent and outgoing, you'd think he'd love a little birthday spotlight shining down on his balding head. But that's not who he is. Maybe the one and only thing that appeals to my father about his birthday is that it's a convenient excuse to get everybody home for dinner-- but I won't be there tonight, because my wife was just sick and my sister is pregnant-- and my mother is worried about her getting sick. I understand that, but I'm sad about. I'm definitely sad.

While I know now that my father has imperfections and inadequacies, there's still that piece of me that thinks he's most definitely the coolest man in the world, that he is capable of anything, that his abilities are beyond those of the common man. One thing's for sure, though: I won't be buying him some gay #1 Dad mug or t-shirt or apron to celebrate his "special day." He's not into getting presents anyway.

I know I'll find some way to see my father tonight, even if it's just for a quick chat and a hug on the front lawn of the house where I grew up.