From What I Remember...

Being the fifth of six I wasn’t necessarily the vessel or gatherer of family history- information had to trickle down to the storm drain before I got wind of it. Life is left often as a feeling-the gestalt of childhood-this hazy aura that remains from a time long ago. So, I begin by saying my account as number five in line may not be as complete as numbers one through four might be.

My father’s parents arrived in Sag Harbor from Lithuania at the turn of the last century with very little in their pockets but an expansive love of the sea which bled neatly into the next generation and the next, and the one after that. Salt water has a way of doing that. My father was born at home on Liberty Street in 1913-the oldest son of immigrants-number two of seven.

Reflecting on the part my father played in my life-was as the commissioner of the family- not necessarily ever engaged in the day-to-day homework or ironing, paying bills or dinner planning-but more or less as the person who made sure all of the outlying pieces were in place and that no one was going for the King’s Gambit. He was a survivor of challenging times and wanted to make sure that we each had a thick enough skin and sufficient hutzpah to get us through life. Life wasn’t soft and coddling; it was often curt, brusque, demanding. Mom was always the pinch hitter in the love department, ready to give us each more than our share.

Dad was an inventor, a dreamer, a visionary, a family man. If he wasn’t out fishing or crabbing, or lobstering, or clamming- he was home planting gardens, stringing nets, or cooking up some borscht or chowder or head cheese- some of which we all tried hard to avoid. He was proud of his heritage yet referred to Sag Harbor as God’s Country- driving slowly over the bridge each morning so he could see all that was happening out on the water. A Bayman, a volunteer firefighter and the salt of the earth he lived with the soil and the sea as both his roots and his compass – in the days when we were all of the earth - and not just living on its surface.

I learned of my father’s passing when I was in class in college and someone summoned me to the door to convey that sad news. It was the first day of scallop season and my father had filled the boat with the allocated number of bushels. Pulling up the heavy dredges must have challenged his heart and he died in our driveway - boots on, boatload of scallops, returning from a day on the sea. I guess it may have been the manner most any fisherman might want to go - though quite a bit premature.

On my morning walks I find myself at the end of Long Wharf looking out in the direction of our family home in North Haven. I stand and thank my grandparents for their foresight and the providence that brought them to this most beautiful part of the world - giving us the opportunity to ripen under the warmth of the magical sunlight and the freedom and expanse of the Harbor.

Love comes in many packages- if possible maybe this Father’s Day we can understand and unwrap the gift of each.