And Then One Day, My Father Died
Among the greatest blessings in my life have been the men who raised me, the men who shaped me and gave me both the skills and ethics to succeed in life.
My maternal grandfather, George, was a self-made man; an immigrant arriving to Ellis Island at four years old, with just the clothes on his back and a single shoe who went on to build an international women’s fashion company designing elegant formal gowns. The man started with nothing, wound up dressing the Queen of England and leaving a long legacy.
My paternal grandfather was one of the kindest, sweetest men I have ever known. He was brilliant, able to look at a long column of numbers, run his soft fingers down the page and do all the calculations in his head — a stunning feat to a grandson. Even as a child I noticed his children calling him lovingly by his Hebrew name, Duvid, with tenderness and respect.
Then there was my Father, the man who taught me how to act, how to think, how to present and show up in life. He was always interested in everything; my Mother, his children, business, the world around him and his playground, his field of expertise and passion; The Workings of Wall Street.
Dad became interested in the stock market as a high schooler, that interest grew more intense when he went to college, taking a pass on Harvard and opting for Wesleyan instead because the classes were smaller and the Professors better paid. Out of college he was off to Korea, joining the Army to fight the war and rapidly advancing to Battalion Sargent-Major (3up/3down!) in year and a half — not because of his prowess with a rifle, but for his prowess in getting things done and getting things, especially provisions and supplies, especially when they had to be finagled.
The concept of ‘just get it done’ served him well as he returned to civilian life. Filled with enthusiasm about the stock market, brimming with fresh ideas and without a shred of experience, he went knocking on the fancy doors of the big Wall Street firms until one opened up and he became a “Wall Street Analyst” — a role he played for nearly the next 60 years of his life.
This was in the 1950’s, the burgeoning silicon chip business was about to change the computer business and within a few months he was anointed the “Buck Rogers Analyst” (because he was the only one at his stodgy old white-shoe firm that new what a ‘transistor’ was) and was promptly dispatched to the West Coast to “…see what those two fellows Bill Hewlett and Dave Packard were up to” and to see if there really was an investment opportunity out there.
Turns out, there was.
His trips to this magical place called California and the treasures he brought back for us kids inspired a love for that place that lives on today — as I sit on a golden hill north of San Francisco watching the wind ripple the grass and dance on the Pacific Ocean, remembering how it all started. He pointed me to a fantastical place that I’d later discover to be my home.
More than inspiring the place I live, he inspired the man I am. From him I learned to be decent. I learned there is right or wrong — seldom a gray area — and you’ve got to pick one. I learned ethics and responsibility in both life and business. I learned to appreciate the day, to notice things, to walk around the world I lived in being amazed and delighted.
I learned to love art; he and my Mom took us to the museum nearly every Saturday of my childhood, since we lived in NYC, the question wasn’t “Do you want to go…?” but rather “Which museum do you want to go to today?” I learned to love music; he played the piano, a beautiful baby grand that I have in my living room today, and the soundtrack of my youth was rich and melodious, from Chopin to Cole Porter, played in fun riffs or long wonderful sessions. My Dad didn’t come home from work pissed off and ready to drink beer and watch TV, he came home and kissed his wife, talked to his kids, played the piano and sat with a book.
I noticed.
It shaped my worldview and behavior.
I learned from my Dad to be inquisitive, to be curious, to learn, to educate myself. I learned to go “look it up”, first in an encyclopedia and then in the card catalogue at Brooklyn’s Grand Army Plaza library, one of our country’s grand collections — and buildings.
I learned many things — and he taught me much. How to be a man, how to think, how to notice how I feel, how to act, how to behave.
He taught me how to make decisions, take actions and above all, honor my commitments.
He taught me humor — and how to make people laugh. I remember being in the car with him as a little boy, driving along the highway and pulling up to a toll booth when, with just a comment or two, he and the toll-taker shared a big laugh and she warmly waved us on our way. He looked over at me with a smile “that’s how you do it — everybody laughs, everybody feels better, even if you just have 10 seconds.”
Lesson learned. I’m pretty sure I’ve never paid a toll without trying to do the same. It always feels better.
Spreading joy, spreading smiles and laughter, talking to strangers, having a little fun. That’s my Dad.
My #1 skill in life is the ability (some say compulsion) to talk to strangers. I learned from watching him that you can always learn something about somebody and something from everybody — but you’d miss it if you weren’t inquisitive and chatty.
Dad taught me to be fearless and curious, he taught me to crave education and new ideas. He taught me that anything was possible and I was capable of doing that anything and more, once I set my mind to it — and I learned that “Nothing really happens until somebody sells something” a single piece of advice that gave me a long, lucrative career and ridiculous amounts of fun.
Most of all, my Father taught me to be a Gentleman, he showed me how to treat others well, with respect and to hold them in high regard, especially women.
My Father was a Mensch.
He always showed up.
He could absolutely be depended upon.
He treated everyone with respect; he never raised his voice in anger to my Mother, he never raised a hand to hit his children. Never. Not once.
He never was mean or vicious, or spiteful to another person in front of me. Never. Not once.
He loved my Mother, their love affair lasted 55 years and continued for the decade after her death. He loved his three kids, he was genuinely proud of us as humans. He would nod politely at our worldly or financial accomplishments — and beam proudly at our Real-Life, Human accomplishments, clearly educating us as to what mattered most. My sisters Julie & Valerie gave him the grandchildren that lit up his life and he taught us all to see the good in everything … and the potential in what’s not good ‘yet’. We have all lived large lives, because he told us it was possible, and by doing that, he made it probable.
Late in life when he finally retired from Wall Street (at 83 years old!) he never stopped being interested, never stopped learning. We’d talk about the uses for Blockchain or the dangers of AI, the potential of AR and he’d pull out a book he just bought or an article he had clipped and annotated for me. He spent his entire life scanning for the next new idea, the next big thing, the next transformative company or industry so he could rally the vast investment dollars to fund those dreams into reality — and he never stopped scanning, never stopped being interested.
Some of my happiest memories are of him in retirement, in his Florida home (gasp!) sitting on the couch with a big grin on his face “It’s been a great life Michael” he’d say “It’s all worked out for the best. It always does.” Content, fulfilled, relaxed and looking forward to his next adventure.
And Then One Day, My Father Died. It was one year ago today.
I didn’t see it coming. Wouldn’t, couldn’t see it coming.
I was pretty sure he’d bounce back, he was only 87, he wasn’t done yet!
Even as I dripped the Hospice morphine into his sleeping mouth and squeezed a little water on his lips, even as I called my sister the nurse in a panic of what to do, I thought he’d rally. I needed him to bounce back.
But he didn’t bounce back.
He didn’t rally.
He died.
He was home, in his bed with his children around, as it was with my Mother. My sister Valerie laid at his side.
It was mercifully brief, an elegant end to an elegant life.
We had a service of course. The Army sent two men with a lot of gold braid and stripes on their sleeves to play Taps on an antique silver trumpet. They folded the flag from the coffin with military precision and handed it to me, now the most senior member of my family.
I lost it.
In an instant I became lost, untethered from the world. I was lost.
He was the rope that kept me connected, kept me grounded and sane. Suddenly that was all gone.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do next. What to feel, what to think, what to DO. I had no clue — and the guy I turned to in moments like this was suddenly unavailable.
Or so I thought.
It’s been a long road back, a painful year. It only took me a few weeks to stop crying in public and then a few months to stop crying in private. I’ve reevaluated much, reflected on plenty and made some significant changes in my life, personal and professional, because of what I saw and heard from him as he reflected on his life. I know that I’ll do that one last time someday and would very much like to have a similar full heart and satisfied smile when that time comes — and I shall.
The people in my life rallied and saved me from fatal despair; my wife Vicki stood with me solidly at every moment as I navigated my way through the unimaginable and unavoidable. My sisters drew closer, their kids stepped up, my cousins and lifelong friends reached out with their fond, fun memories — and respect.
Over the past several years I made the opportunity to sit with my Dad and interview him on video, about his life. It was an extraordinary process; listening intently as the stories unfolded (sometimes a story not thought of in decades) and the time spent was warmly rewarding for both of us — and now we have that treasure trove of wit and wisdom on video (Like These) as it turns out, that wit and wisdom is what we get to carry with us everyday.
The notable “final moment” of full lucidity was two days before his death; he had a home nurse helping him by then and she was trying to cajole him up, out of bed and into the shower so he could get dressed and we’d go off to the club for lunch; “Come on Mr Jim — don’t you want to get up and get all beautiful for lunch with your son?” He opened one exhausted eye, flashed her a devilishly charming grin and said “I’m Already Beautiful, Baby!”
Yes Dad. Yes you are.
I’m left with what feels like a big empty hole in my heart — but that heart is actually filled with all the love and laughter he poured into it, as much as he could, as fast as he could, for 5 decades in a row. Never missing a beat. Because of that, Here I Am Today.
Above all, you were right Dad;
“It’s a great life. It all worked out. It alway’s does.”
Godspeed Jim Wolpert. You Are Cherished.
