One Sunday, my father’s mother, Addie, was there—a rare occasion. I don’t think I was more than five years old. It began as a typical Sunday, my father spending the entire day meticulously preparing his signature dish. He shucked and cleaned every clam, sliced the garlic, and chopped the aromatic flat Italian parsley. It was such a process—a ritual, rather. As per usual I hadn’t eaten all day, save maybe a Ritz cracker (and I probably hadn’t had a full meal the day before; Saturday night at my mother’s house could be a bit haphazard). Between reading and coloring and tummy rumbles, I eyed the pantry. The air was perfumed with the freshness of my father’s ingredients. I’d waited all week, waited all day; I just needed to hold out until dinnertime. Soon I would be reveling in my favorite dish.
I smelled the pasta softening in the boiling water and knew it wouldn’t be long. “It’s dinnertime!” my father finally sang. I jumped up and rushed to sit at the small Formica table in the kitchen. Addie, with a fabulous red wig and a red printed caftan to match, was on a tangent, telling some story only the grown-ups would be interested in. I could barely hold my head up, as I’d probably started to swoon and drool waiting for the deliciousness that was about to appear before me. I watched my father put the pasta on my plate, then scoop up the heavenly sauce and artfully pour it around the linguine. I followed his every move as he lowered the steaming white plate down in front of me. It was time! And then, just as I was picking up my fork, Addie—who had not paused in her story to take a breath—whipped out a green canister of grated Parmesan cheese and proceeded to shake its unsavory, powdery contents all over my elegant fresh linguine.
Noooooooo!!!!!! I screamed in horror. But it was too late; my plate was covered with it. My father never put that cheese on white clam sauce! Where had it even come from? Did she have it in her pocketbook?! Unable to control my shock and revulsion, I ran to the bathroom, slammed the door, and exploded into tears. “Roy, you better make her eat that pasta. Make her eat that food!” I heard Addie telling my father in defiance. That was the only time I remember my father’s perfect pasta being foiled, and I think it was the last time Addie joined us for Sunday supper.
My father taught me that words have meaning and thus, they have power. Once, on a lovely summer Sunday afternoon, I heard the faint jingle of the ice cream truck coming down the street outside my father’s house. Upon recognizing the mystical melody that promised so much pleasure, I let out an excited cry: “Aaaaa! The ice cream man!” The song was loud and clear now, so I knew the truck had stopped somewhere nearby. The pattering of running feet and the happy squeals I heard confirmed it—the ice cream man was right outside our door. My mind was racing. I gotta go! I thought to myself. He’s going to leave!
“Can I borrow fifty cents, please, please?!” I nearly shrieked at my father, dangerously close to hyperventilating.
“Do you want to borrow fifty cents? Or would you like to have fifty cents?” he replied in a cool, calm tone.
A mild panic was creeping in. “Uhhhh,” I stammered. I didn’t know what to say. All I knew was that I had to get some money for the ice cream man. “I don’t know!”
I wasn’t thinking clearly. Again, my father spoke in a patient, level manner that only enhanced my frenzy.
“There’s a difference between borrowing and having. Are you asking me to give you fifty cents?”
I was in a state and unprepared to make distinctions at that moment, so I blurted out, “I just want to borrow fifty cents. I’ll give it back! Please!”
He reached in his pocket, pulled out two shiny silver quarters, and dropped them in my anxious little palm. Like the occasional Ritz cracker, they felt like precious jewels. I burst through the doors of the building, barely touching the steps, and ran to the truck like a gazelle being chased by a lion.
I had gotten my ice cream, but my father made it clear I would have to repay the money I had borrowed. At seven years old I wasn’t earning any money yet, so I asked my mother for the quarters. She couldn’t fathom why my father would barter with his little girl, and she gave them to me. They had always had opposing parenting styles. I kept my promise and gave the money back to him the next Sunday. The ice cream man incident was a lesson not only in respecting the meaning of words but in integrity and money management. My father was a man who had saved the very first dollar he ever made.
Being a single father was a fairly new notion back then, so he wasn’t prepared to plan girlie playdates or fun, child-centered activities. For the most part, I was simply the child accompaniment to his regular adult life—keeping busy and out of the way as he cooked, cleaned, and tinkered with his car while listening to football on the radio. And he adored his Porsche. It was his only true luxury. He bought two of them in his lifetime, one before children and one after, both used. His Speedster was apparently always in need of some sort of repair, so he was always messing around in it.
The car was in a perpetual state of being “prepared” for full
