Sunday is Father’s Day. Last week, we lit a yahrzeit candle (a memorial candle) for my father, Harold Samuel Feder. If it was in my power,
I’d light candles for him from here to Jerusalem. He was, quite simply, the best man I’ve ever known.
My father’s life spanned the 20th century. He was born in 1909 to an immigrant family and grew up in a cold-water flat in Brooklyn. His bedroom
was a cot in the kitchen, next to the stove. In a tough neighborhood, survival was a constant struggle. He told me he often picked a fight with the
toughest kid on the block, so – win or lose – the others would respect him.
He left school at 14 and got a job delivering ladies’ hand mirrors from a factory in Brooklyn to retailers in Manhattan. He lived in a flop house, took
most of his meals at the Automat, and went to a Turkish bath once a week to get clean.
As a young man, he bummed around the country, survived the
Depression, met and married my mother in 1936. They were married for almost 60 years. He served in World War II. After the war, we moved to Johnstown,
a town in upstate New York, where he owned a clothing store.
The most important lessons my father taught me were never spoken, but found in the way he lived.
Growing up, my father was a rock to cling to. He was honorable, hardworking, and kind. His discipline was always gentle. He believed in
me, and that gave me the strength to succeed.
As a child, sometimes my parents would take me out for an evening, perhaps to a movie. Coming home, when I was five or six, I’d fall asleep in the car,
and he’d carry me into the house. I’ll always remember how strong his arms were and the sense of security they gave me.
My Dad was like millions of middle-class fathers who worked hard and raised their children knowing they were secure and loved. Their only monuments are
in the hearts of their families.
He died in 1995. It was one of the few times in my adult life when I really cried.
Submitted by Don Feder.