I miss my Dad. And as it turns out, the rest of the Internet misses their Dads, too.

I was checking the search strings that have led people to this blog, and discovered that several hundred people a month have been getting here as a result of looking for words to say when a father passes away.

Here are some examples.

Who knew there were so many variations on that sentiment? I’m amazed. (And there were dozens more.)

I’m not sure whether what people found when they got here helped. But I’d like to think it did. At least a little.

I dreamed about my father this morning, which made sense, because today is his birthday, and he was supposed to have turned 79. I write “supposed to,” because he died on January 27, 2009.

In my dreams, I never know that, though. When I see my grandmother Grace in my dreams, I’m always initially confused, and ask her, “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” To which she always replies, “Yes.” And then I shrug, let it pass, and we go on with whatever else is happening in the dream.

But when I see my father in my dreams, I’m never confused, never think he should be dead and wonder why he’s still alive. I’m just happy he’s there, and that we’re doing together whatever it is we’re doing.

But he’s not here today, so we can’t do anything together. At least … not when I’m awake.

Because I can’t think of anything better to say to commemorate him, I’ll share again what I posted back on February 3, 2009, a week after his death:

My father, Barnet “Barney” Edelman, seen with me below in our last picture together, passed away one week ago today.

He had been ailing for quite a while from a variety of illnesses, including congestive heart failure, but what finally took him from us was either polymyositis or dermatomyositis. Though his agonizing symptoms seemed consistent with one or both of those, his doctors were never really sure, as he was not responding to any medications. As his body withered, his many physicians were puzzled, and wished they had a Gregory House on staff to solve the medical mystery. (more…)

I continue channeling my father by typing out the autobiography he sent to me a few years before his death. In the latest installment, he leaves the comfort of Brooklyn and heads off to boot camp.

Growing Up and Stuff: An Adventure
Part 4

It was only a few months later and there I was in the Navy, with groups of other fresh innocents straight from school and into a conflict for the love of country and the American way.

I managed to see romantic Eddy just before I left. He had gotten married and he and his wife were living in a one-room furnished apartment. They were happy and had a child on the way and were trying to scratch out a living and a life together.

I ran into Eddy years later on the streets of Manhattan. He was rushing to work in the garment district and had little time to talk, so we didn’t even exchange phone numbers.

I guess the years were taking their toll on him. He looked years older than his age and appeared stooped and of course still had a five o’clock shadow. We never did run into each other again.

I remember waking up on the day I was to report to the Navy. I wondered what I was getting into as I stood in front of a mirror combing my hair into my usual high pomp. After all, it had to be just right.

Here I was, right out of school, fresh from being one of the kids you see hanging around the local candy store or the kid that just delivered your groceries to you, all of us trying to grow up and find out what life was all about.

Next thing it’s the draft, thinking of my friends in the Army up to their crotches in mud. I went the Navy way and wound up up to my crotch in salt water.

I held the postcard in my hand, reading it slowly, making sure once again of the address of the place the Navy wanted me to report to. It was easy as pie. I go to the place, step forward, raise my hand in an oath. And follow a group of strangers onto a bus heading for a place called boot camp.

Boot camp turned out to be a very strange place. High fences and guards. As bus after bus rolled into this strange place, you stood around waiting for someone to tell you what to do.

Suddenly, my ears are filled with this loud sound. A voice is issuing a long string of commands loud enough to break the sound barrier, all of this without the aid of any electronic device … Oh, boy!

Here I am running around some sort of camp with people who all sounded funny to me when they talked. I must have sounded funny to them, since my main language was Brooklyn-ese. (more…)

In the latest installment of my father’s autobiography, which he sent to me a few years before his death, the Brooklyn boy is growing up … and war looms on the horizon.

Growing Up and Stuff: An Adventure
Part 3

Next on our hangout list was Happy’s Deli. Happy was a former professional boxer and had been a merchant seaman during World War II. He loved to sit with us and tell us stories of his fighting days as we sat eating large slices of salami.

Davey’s house was a great hangout for us. His father liked the company and enjoyed our laughter. Davey’s mother had passed away years before, and he always blamed a local doctor for it. We all avoided that doctor, through a combination of loyalty to Davey and just plain fear.

Davey had an older sister who would teach us the latest dance steps. Eddy was always hitting on her. He never got anywhere, no matter how hard he tried.

Another of our hangouts was Mendy’s house. His mother had also passed away, so that he and Davey had a sort of close understanding between themselves. Mendy’s father was a character. He was an avid gin rummy player and he could read the cards, memorizing what was out. He could almost tell you what cards you had in your hand. His local bootlegger supplied him with some great alcohol, which we sampled now and then.

Tuesday nights became almost sacred. It was Uncle Miltie night on television, and in those days the streets would be empty, because he was on. Televisions were expensive and not everyone could afford one. And so, on Tuesday nights, we’d drop into Jerry’s house and crowd in with his folks, sisters, brothers and all the neighbors and anyone else who showed up. We’d all sit in a darkened living room in front of a 12″ television set. (more…)

It felt good to commune with my father yesterday as I typed the opening of his autobiographical manuscript here. So good, in fact, that I’d like to commune some more. Here’s the second installment of what he sent me a few years before his death at 76 on January 27, 2009.

I’m not entirely sure that anyone out there is interested, but feeling him looking over my shoulders (or am I looking over his shoulders?) is doing wonders for ME.

Growing Up and Stuff: An Adventure
Part 2

A few things expanded my universe—clip-on roller skates and bicycles. We started to grow up, discovering ourselves and girls. The games changed to Post Office and Spin the Bottle, and some of this girl stuff without playing any games at all.

Then there would be guy talk. When I got older, I found that gal talk was twice as vivid and left very little to the imagination. So much for the guys who thought they knew it all.

Then, of course, came time to break from those guys on the block and seek another group that was a little more interested in girls and less in a good game of stickball.

I was standing in line in Gym at Seth Low Junior High School when I first met Eddy. He already shaved and had a five o’clock shadow. With these few words we started a long friendship: “I’ve got a date and need a few more guys for her girlfriends.”

Eddy was always the romantic and could find girls anywhere. It led to many adventures and helped mold my teenage experience, and also gave me a group of guys to hang out with.

So I became part of a group that ventured out of my world of the block. We went off chasing Eddy’s love interests and having a great time. We expended this to other boroughs after we got into High School.

We discovered Boro Park, a short ride on a bus for us. It became the place to be for the next few years.

In the summer, it was Boro Park at night and Coney Island or Brighton Beach during the day. How could a guy go wrong? We were on this happy trip and growing into our upper teens. (more…)

A few years before my father died on January 27, 2009 at age 76, he sent me a manuscript he’d written about his life growing up in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. I’m missing him, and since I’m in the mood to feel his presence for awhile, I pulled out those pages and started to read. But because I’d like to feel him flowing through me for a bit, I’m going to retype some of it here. I could simply scan it to share—that would certainly be much quicker—but it wouldn’t bring him back quite as strong.

So here is what my father thought important enough to want to tell us. On the front of the yellow folder he sent me was written, “My Long Story,” but inside, he titled what he’d written:

Growing Up and Stuff: An Adventure

I grew up in Brooklyn. You have to understand the sound of the way we talked in Brooklyn. It was rough to the ear, and had its own unique sound. You’ve probably heard someone try to talk the talk of a kid from Brooklyn. They either come close or miss by a mile.

To me, it was a sweet sound, and never having been away from Brooklyn at the time, I had no idea that we sounded different. That is, until I began to travel and heard some very distinctive accents. Have you ever heard someone in Scotland try to imitate a Brooklyn accent?

All over the world, kids play in parks, playgrounds, backyards, and schoolyards. But for us at that time in Brooklyn, it was the streets, close by our houses. Our block was our playground. It was our own safe little universe.

Getting up a game on our block was easy. You’d meet up out on the street and in no time, you could get up a game of touch football. You have to understand that this was all before any formal leagues of any sort had been formed, in our area anyway, long before anything like Little League or anything like it.

It didn’t matter if it was winter or summer. If you were a young, adventurous kid growing up in Brooklyn, the streets were your playground.

The cold winters held the thoughts of snowball fights and ice-skating, maybe a sled ride down a driveway. Or if you were lucky, you could make it over to one of the parks.

The warm summer and long daylight hours helped when you were exploring your youthful needs on the streets of Brooklyn. (more…)

As those of you who’ve been reading my meanderings already know, my father passed away in January. Dad was an accomplished artist, and many of his paintings hang in our house. This week we added one more.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d happened to mention to my mother that my wife and I loved a particular painting of his, and she surprised us by packaging it up and shipping it north from Florida. She told me that she did this partially because it was my birthday, and partially because she felt that since Irene and I liked it so much we should have it to enjoy.

Here’s the fanciful fish I’ve admired for years:

When I unpacked the painting and prepared to hang it, I saw that there was a second, secret painting hidden on the back. Dad usually stretched his own canvas rather than purchase it prestretched, and if he didn’t like a particular piece, he’s remove it from its frame and use the reverse side.

Here’s the image I discovered on the back:

Not a painting I’d choose to look at every day—it seems a bit too melancholy for my taste—but it’s certainly beautiful in its own way. Sadly, I’ll never get the chance to find out what caused him to abandon it.

We hung it at the top of the stairs, where we’ll see it every day. After doing so, I took a step back, admiring it. I wanted to tell Dad how beautiful I thought it was and how happy it made me to see it hanging there, and in that moment it hit me once more how there’s no longer a way for me to tell him those things. I got choked up remembering yet again that our conversation has now turned into a monologue.

I miss him.