“Mother: I know my son loves me because for one hour every week, he talks to his psychiatrist about me.”
One of my oldest and dearest friends is a guy named Bernie. We’ve been pals for over 50 years. I don’t see him much because he lives in New York, and I live in Los Angeles. So, instead, we talk on the phone. Not just occasionally, but six days a week. Sometimes we talk for 20 seconds and other times, we have long conversations.
Bernie knew my parents and I knew his. We both lost our folks. My folks loved him and his folks loved me. My father has been gone for over 30 years and my mother for over 20. I’m an only child, and except for a few friends and a handful of cousins, I have nobody who knows my past. So Bernie and his family are an important link to my past.
So, when Bernie called recently and said that, while he was exercising, he thought about my parents, I was very touched. He got my attention. He said, “I remember your father had a great sense of humor. He was a regular guy. I remembered your mother always wanting to check the parimutuel racetrack numbers to see if she won money. (My parents always needed money.) And even though I was in my late 20s, I remember your mother asking me to call her to let her know I got home safely.”
Growing up, Bernie and his parents made me feel a part of their family by inviting me to Christmas dinners, showing me how they made homemade wine, and laughing at my terrible jokes when I was just starting as a comedian. I notice that when I remind Bernie of the good times I had with his folks, there seems to be something both sad and comforting about it. When one has lost one’s parents, it creates a special bond with others that share the same fate.
Bernie’s call was a big deal. It made me feel good. It reminded me that I have a history. It reminded me that I came from somewhere besides where I live today. When anybody tells me a story about one or both of my parents, it’s almost always very special.
I am at the point in my life where it’s not unusual to go months or even a year without my parents’ names ever coming up in meaningful conversation. Sure, the synagogue reminds me that their yahrzeits (anniversary of death) are coming up. I say yizkor for their souls a few times a year. But I never really sit down and talk about them.
That’s why it’s extra special when Bernie or anyone tells me about the good times. I believe these memories are important to share. I’m not talking about dwelling on the past, but rather just occasionally sharing it.
I spent too many years dredging up painful recollections. Maybe when you’re 20, life is not short. But it certainly is now. So, with what I have left, I choose to look at mostly the bright spots.
In my bathroom drawer, I still have my father’s shaving kit. When I see it sitting there, he comes sailing back to me.
In my bathroom drawer, I still have my father’s shaving kit. When I see it sitting there, he comes sailing back to me. Occasionally I plug in his 40-year-old electric razor and, amazingly, it still works. It gives me a sense of his aliveness. I can still remember watching him shave, wondering when I’d be able to shave, too. The photos I have of my mom remind me of the good times. They bring pleasant thoughts.
Sadly, way too many people depart this life with a bitter taste in their mouths. I easily could have been one of those people. I’ve worked hard to avoid that. I’m a lucky man. I have a wife, kids, daughters-in-law, grandkids, in-laws, and lots of friends to share the new stories with. My childhood is long over and many of my memories have long ago faded away. But my life for many years now has been one of creating new and in many ways, happier longer lasting stories.
Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer, and host of the ‘You Don’t Know Schiff’ podcast.
