TEENAGE REFLECTIONS

[schlomo]

Teenage Reflections

My father died 45 years ago. I still think of him often, especially when I am reveling in classical music, or when I grapple with polemical current events, or when I fanatically follow the Boston Red Sox. Although my father rarely spoke to me, except after he came home and asked what I had done that day that was “constructive,” we had a lot of special time together.

We reverently listened to classical music (on the radio, TV, in-person concerts) ranging from Bach to Bartok. We took turns voraciously reading in toto the daily Boston Globe, the Sunday New York Times, and Newsweek and Time Magazine. Whether the Boston Red Sox were on TV or the radio, my father and I were thoroughly absorbed in the baseball game. If our team won, we grinned; when the Sox lost (particularly when they all-too-often blew a lead), we grimaced. In any case, my father and I cherished our silent homage to whatever we passionately pursued together.

Those times when I was alone with my father forged a silent camaraderie between us that lasted until my father’s descent into dementia.

Last night I thought of my father when I turned on the car radio and heard trumpet blasts from the first symphony of Gustav Mahler, my father’s favorite composer. I am sure that I will have continued fond memories of my father, especially since I attend many venues for classical music in Honolulu.