I used to buy my dad so many Father’s Day cards each year – funny ones, poignant ones, ones that made fun of me, my sister, my mom. You name it, I sent it. I even remember a lot of them. There was one with a bunch of swans in a row and a single, scruffy white duckling at the end of the line. It read, “From your non-conformist child.” There was one about the dad who was mistaken for an ATM. But my all-time fave was the one with the Mark Twain quote, “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”
I hid them all over my house and waited with anticipation for my dad to pour his cereal and find a card cascading out of the box with his Corn Flakes, tumbling out of the overflowing medicine cabinet when he reached for his vitamins, or stuck on the windshield of his car as he pulled out of the garage to head to work. I’m not sure he ever really appreciated my efforts. I think more than anything he focused on the cash outlay it must’ve cost to purchase all those Hallmark-sponsored professions of adulation. He was, after all, a practical man. But for me, Father’s Day was the one time each year I could at least attempt to tell him how much I valued his support and love – and how I’d be lost without him.
I didn’t realize how true that was until my father passed away 13 years ago from melanoma. At the time I was pregnant with my first son, Levi. Not a day goes by that I don’t lament the fact that my dad never got to meet either of my boys, or that my boys didn’t have the chance to know the man who shaped my soul and created the woman I’ve ultimately become. Plus for my dad, who spent countless hours perfecting my layup and teaching me how to throw a spiral pass, two raucous little imps like mine would’ve been the gift of a lifetime.
Once when I was invited to a 1950s sock-hop costume party, my dad lent me his chunky, old bar mitzvah ring to wear on a chain around my neck. His initials, “L.R.” stood out proudly in white gold over the smooth yellow gold of the base. I never gave it back. I can’t honestly explain that, unless to say that somehow I knew it would be mine all too soon and that I simply wasn’t willing to risk losing it in some post-funeral negotiation with my sister. The ring remained with me for the next 30 years. It traveled with me as I ventured away from my hometown of Chicago and made my way to Los Angeles. It stuck close when I left the glitter and glitz of LA to come here to Arizona. I never lost sight of it, never allowed it out of my possession, never even confessed its existence to my mother or sister. Since it was all that I had to hold onto, I would never risk having to share it or give it up entirely. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe that was selfish. But both my mom and my sister have a plethora of fatherly mementos. This is pretty much it for me. I wear it each year on Passover and Rosh Hashana. The rest of the year I keep it tucked away in a special drawer with a few embroidered handkerchiefs and my grandpa’s old cufflinks. The ring makes me feel close to my dad, almost like he’s still around. I’ve never considered giving it up. Until now.
My son, Levi Rich, was named after my father, Lewis Rich. A few months ago I realized why I’d held onto the ring for all these years. Somewhere deep inside I must have known that the ring had a rightful owner and that my job was merely to pass it along to him one day. Levi will become a bar mitzvah this coming October. At 13 he has the humor, thoughtfulness and compassion that infused my father’s personality. He truly is a chip off the old block, so to speak.
I took the ring to our family jeweler a few weeks ago to have the shank strengthened and have it polished up. I wanted the “L.R.” to gleam brightly. I even added a small sapphire stud to it, the single remainder from a pair I’d gotten as a bat mitzvah present so many years ago. I’d always wondered why I’d been gifted those sapphire studs since my birthstone was emeralds, and why I’d mysteriously lost one of them and managed to hold onto the other for all this time. But suddenly, it all seemed to make sense. Levi’s birthstone was sapphire. Of course. The ring and the stone were meant to be together and were meant to go to him.
Maybe to some of you this sounds silly or “woo-woo” or just a little too “out there” for reality. But to me, the ring represents a passing of past to present, of father to daughter to son. It is a true reminder that we are all a product of those who came before and that our lives represent the goodness, sacrifice and devotion of those we have loved and who have loved us.
So to my son I say, “You are a blessing. It is with great joy and pride that I hand down to you this beautiful ring that was given to my beloved father on the day he became a bar mitzvah.” And to my father I say, “While your presence is felt keenly in all that I do and all the moments of my life, you are deeply missed and longed for as I wander through this life without you. Your blessed memory comforts and strengthens us all as we walk our own paths and discover our own journey’s way.”
I thought about giving my son the ring this Father’s Day. But maybe I’ll wear it one more time and hold onto it until his actual bar mitzvah. It’s not that I’m not ready to part with it or anything. It just that … well … I might have a sock hop to attend over the summer, and I wouldn’t want to miss the
opportunity to wear it just one more time.
Debra Rich Gettleman is a mother and blogger based in the Phoenix area. For more of her work, visit unmotherlyinsights.com.
