The Giant-Hearted - Died 2008

Earlier this week, I heard author and NPR contributor, Marion Winik read excerpts from and participate in a Q&A about her recent book, The Baltimore Book of the Dead. In her book, Winik shares stories about important people in her life, all of whom are no longer living. The pieces are short and evocative. Her mother, who she calls The Alpha, passed away in 2008 – the same year as my father.

Last week, would have been my dad’s 78^th birthday and on June 13, we mourn the 11^th year of his passing. I was inspired by Winik’s writing and by these milestone dates to write my own story in the same vein about my dad.

The Giant-Hearted

Died 2008

“Marjorie’s version of “Summertime” is incredible enough for her to perform it on Broadway and she could have - if anyone who had the power to make it happen heard her.”

My dad. Always the optimist. Always the exaggerator.

Never mind that the song “Summertime” came from the opera Porgy and Bess ─ an African American folktale. My white, Jewish NYC-born and bred mom was so talented, that she should have been on the biggest stage in the world singing about living in a southern black housing project by the river, per my dad.

His adoration for people - especially my mom ─ and for descriptive adjectives like incredible, fantastic, and mind-blowing, was legendary.

He also loved his children and his friends fiercely. His cousin, Peter? “One of the most talented and best humans on the planet.” His dear life-long friend, Pat? “The warmest, most special individual you’ll ever meet.”

As a teen and even as an adult, I responded to my dad’s many accolades and superlatives both directed at me (Laura is an immensely talented writer and public speaker!) and at others with epic eye rolling. My eye rolling was so frequent and pervasive, I could have majored in it in college.

Instead of embracing his love of people and of positive, if overstated, descriptors, I was embarrassed by him. I thought he was way too much. His enthusiasm always seemed to be turned up to 11, while I was stuck on 6. Can’t you tone it down a bit, I thought to myself?

Most everyone else, however, was drawn to him like a magnet. How could they not be? There was no one like him – he was one-of-a-kind and always himself in any and every situation.

Lying in his hospice bed, two weeks before he died, his once rotund body shrunken by the effects of late-stage prostate cancer, he was in legacy preservation mode – dictating to my mom everything he wanted my newly walking 1-year-old daughter to know about him after he was gone.

He listed 39 diverse passions.

His personal advice included nuggets like “Remain loyal to your goals, the truth, and people that you trust,” “Do not be afraid to say you made a mistake,” and “Live, love, learn and leave a legacy. Make an impact on the lives of others.”

There are some days when I could really use some of dad’s supersized brand of love and praise and wish desperately that my daughter could have experienced it, too.

And my response now would be eye-roll free.