My father, Bob Goldhamer, passed away two years ago, a week after his 94th birthday. When he died, my sister, Sue, and I each inherited a large box containing all of our childhood drawings and every letter we sent to Dad from camp or college.
Dad had apparently lugged these boxes from one apartment or house (or marriage) to the next. He was not a hoarder. This was just evidence of how much he treasured us — and anything we created. Sue and I both idolized and idealized Dad — until we matured enough to notice how controlling and irritating he could be. (Like the time he felt compelled to stop and give unsolicited advice to four women playing tennis at the park.) Nevertheless, we felt a deep love for Dad, and a great appreciation for his love, his wisdom and the fun we had together.
Dad, who was in Ohio, always said, “Even though we live far apart, we are always in each other’s hearts.” I can still feel him there.
In anticipation of Father’s Day, I asked some fellow adult “children” to tell me about their fathers.
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