Dad Stories

It is Father’s Day 2023 and I am reflecting on my Dad, Rabbi Richard M. Leviton. This is not going to be a flowery paean to him. He was very human. He loved his four children and took good care of us, but it was difficult, especially after Mom died. Even more so after he remarried and two more kids joined the family. There were so many of us, and his income as a young rabbi was modest. We never wanted for necessities, but luxuries were few. At least it felt that way.

I was hard on my Dad, and estranged from him for much of my life, although I felt we had reconciled as much as possible before he died in 2020. I grew up thinking frequently of how I would be different as a father than he was, but now I feel I turned out very much like him. He wasn’t handy with tools, and didn’t know much about cars. Same as me. This led to my traumatic experience making a pine wood derby car for a Cub Scout project. It was thoroughly humiliating.

Dad was a table tennis champion as a teenager in Indiana. He was outgoing and comfortable speaking to large groups. I did not take after him in these aspects.

Dad liked to read and to discuss ideas. Same as me. He taught me to play chess, which I still enjoy. Both of us raised families that felt their father wasn’t around enough. We both married women who we trusted to be in charge of our families.

Once, according to my fading memory, we gave a miniature Hershey’s bar to Dad, possibly on Father’s Day. I don’t remember why there was just one or where it came from. The four of us immediately asked Dad for a piece. He broke it into four, and gave us each one. Only after we had consumed them did I realize that he was left with none for himself.

Similarly, I remember once there was Campbell’s condensed cream of mushroom soup for dinner. I wanted seconds, but that would leave none for Dad. He said I should have it, that he didn’t like mushrooms. I believed that for many years, until I saw him eating some and asked him about it. He didn’t remember saying he didn’t like mushrooms.

Dad was not my hero. Still, one of my treasured memories from childhood is when I tied for first place in a small local magic contest, and he said he was proud of me.

One Friday night when I was in high school, Dad and my stepmother came home from services. I don’t remember why let had let me off from going. Dad was furious, egged on no doubt by my stepmother, that I was operating the clothes dryer on the Sabbath. This was not a rule I was aware of in our Reform Jewish household. I was drying my McDonald’s uniform shirt after washing it for work the next day. Dad got so angry, he tore the shirt apart. That may have been the closest I ever came to striking him, but I held back. The next day I brought the torn shirt in to work, and the manager gave me a new one.

Dad bought a new Chevy Chevette for me for my summer job during my Stanford days. His name was on the title, but it was mine to drive. After I graduated and got a job, he asked me to pay for my own car insurance. Something about the way he asked (in a typewritten letter?) upset me so much that I returned the car to him. It became my younger sister Nancy’s car for a few years. I bought myself a used mustang and paid for my own insurance after that. I no longer feel my fury was ever justified. I should have been able to communicate better with my Dad, but his marriage to my stepmother made a difficult situation impossible.

Eventually, I started talking with Dad again. In retirement, he and his wife took many cruises, with him serving as ship’s chaplain. He performed weddings and led services aboard ship. They cruised around the world, and visited us in California a number of times. Last week, I came across a batik shirt from Indonesia he brought me on one of these visits. Probably, my stepmother had picked it out. An “XL” shirt in Indonesia is equivalent to a Medium here. At the time I got it, it was quite tight around the middle and I didn’t wear it much. Last week I tried it on. It fit perfectly and drew complements.