Father's Day

Robert S. Einzig, 1921-2007

In one week, on June 28th, it will be two years since my father was suddenly weak and went to the hospital.

In eight days, on June 29th, shortly after noon, west coast time, it will be two years since my father died.

I don't know if I called him that Father's Day--in 2007, it was June 17. I sometimes did, I sometimes didn't--my family was never big on such things. But maybe I did. He was fine then. Hell, he was fine (at least as far as I knew) on June 27th, when I chatted with him on the phone.

When I cleaned up his desk after his death, still not sure of his diagnosis (we didn't get test results until a week later), I found all of the profiles of doctors that he had printed out, all the specialists that he had researched. And a scribbled note in his writing, that said "Lymphoma?" "Leukemia?". He was right, on both counts. He hadn't wanted to bother anyone until he knew for sure. That was typical. I had no idea.

He was an atheist. He believed definitively that when you go, that's it, it's over. And it wasn't an idle belief, either. When I feel myself reaching out to speak with him--in whatever form such a thing is possible--I have to do it through a thick curtain of "What a lot of nonsense". I've learned to deal with it. Do I have a choice?

There was no funeral. No memorial service. No grave. No obituary. These were his wishes. In the days foll0wing his funeral, people would say "Did you tell him that [these rituals] were not for him?", probably because they couldn't imagine not having those tethering points themselves. As for me, I'd want my wishes honored. I'm like him, I guess.

So, in the absence of funeral, service, grave, obituary, I am left with....well, Everything.

I am left with the memory of reading the play of Fiddler on the Roof to him in the living room when I was ten or eleven, complete with all voices and songs, as he listened attentively.

I am left with the memory of the "jobs" he gave me, like cutting out marked articles in the newspapers (he was an "x", and my mom was a "check") with the enormous pointy scissors or checking the change from his pockets to see if there were any old silver coins.

I am left with that hat that he's wearing in the picture. I wear it for warmth. I wear it for remembrance. It looked better on him.

I am left with the memory of playing Bookshelf games with him as a child, most notably "Stocks and Bonds", a game I chose because I knew he'd like that. And Probe, which was a great word game. And cards. Lots of cards--gin rummy, blackjack (which we called "21"), War.

I am left with the sound of his shoes coming down the hallway as I ran into my room, slamming the door behind me, in trouble again. I am left with the sound of his voice, singing lullabies in Hungarian and French. I am left with the whirring sound of the juicer, every single morning in recent years, as he made fresh orange juice for breakfast. I am left with the sound of his skipping rope--he could skip rope like a boxer, fast and smooth. I could never jump rope like that, I had to do that double jump little-girl rope-jumping thing. I was amazed.

I am left with the memory of picking him up at the train station on the day I got my driver's license.

I am left with the sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter memory of his laughter, which was hearty and wonderful and welcome, except when it wasn't.

I am left with the memory of how he loved sailing, how he bought two sailboats and named them both after me, something that never really sunk in. Of pulling the El Toro out of the boat rack, putting on the orange lifejacket and bobbing around in the Redwood City harbor by the huge salt pile. Of sitting on the bigger boat that he barely ever took out of its berth, but loved and was so proud of anyway.

I am left with the memory of someone shouting "Daddy's on TV!" (maybe it was me) and running and sliding in my stocking feet into the TV room to see him there, on the black and white TV, talking about something I couldn't understand (economics) on a show I didn't even know existed (probably something like Wall Street Week). It wasn't Father Knows Best. Though I guess it kinda was.

I am left with the vivid memory of the two houses that he thought about buying (not both of them, just one or the other) when I was in my early teens--I remember everything about them, even where they are. I could drive to either one now, almost 40 years later. I am left with the memory of his memory of the houses, and his shaking his head and remarking, even in recent years, "I shoulda bought that house".

I am left with his watch, which I have worn every day since shortly after he died. I am left with a few of his drawing supplies, which he hadn't used in years but loved dearly. "Your father used to doodle on everything" she says. Me too. Even just looking at the colorful old boxes of pencil lead makes me smile.


I am left with the acute perception of his presence in Paris 10 months after his death. How I could suddenly speak French far better than I expected, though nowhere near the fluency that made someone argue with him at least once that he could not be, in fact, an American.

I am left with the legacy of disdain for religion, for stupidity, for lots of things.

I am left with memory of an amazing meal in the French countryside when I was thirteen, where there was a waiter stationed behind each person's chair. I don't even remember the food (I probably didn't like it), other than the sorbet that was served between courses (ice cream in the middle of a meal? O-Kay!!!). I was focused on the fact that every time I took a sip of water, the man standing behind me stepped forward and filled my glass. Or so I recall.

I am left with the memory of him telling me that he loved me a lot when he was in the hospital recovering from bypass surgery, and how I attributed his softness to pain medication, but I didn't care.

I am left with the memory of food. He loved chocolate, goat cheese, bananas and sour cream, cholent, Hungarian food. He picked all of the chestnuts out of the chestnut stuffing at Thanksgiving. He made a mean oatmeal in later years.

I am left with photos, from the red plaid photo box in the high cabinet in the TV room, the one that he was always the only one tall enough to retrieve, the one that I can now take down with ease. Photos that I admired of him as a young man, goofing around with his friends, or just so suave.

Photos from the Army.

Photos from the liberation of Nordhausen concentration camp, stuffed into a small manila envelope that mysteriously was whisked away out of my hand every time I came upon it and asked "What is this?", until, of course, I was old enough to find it on my own. Photos of my parents, gorgeous in their happiness and youth (dig those saddle shoes).

I am left with memories of my father with my daughter--walking with her in the back yard when she was a baby,

playing card games, especially War (he'd say "you stinker!" when she won, just like he did to me),


the two of them gazing at each other in admiration.


He always seemed surprised when I did well.

He told other people he was proud of me, but could never tell me.

He wasn't perfect. But he was a good man. And he was my dad.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

And no, this doesn't mean that I think you can hear me. Feel better?

Economics? Me? Here? Now?

Okay, folks, hold on..I'm switchin' gears for a minute.

Time for a little story (got your fuzzy slippers on?).

The story is, at heart, about memorial services. Yeah, the kind that happen when people die. Don't let it throw you off. It's about being a dutiful daughter or a family member of someone who clearly indicate that , when they pass, they want it to be without mention. A little blip on the radar screen that just goes away. That's it. No adoration, no obituary, no burial.

It's about the people who say, upon hearing of that stated preference, "Did anyone tell him that the memorial service is not for him?" (but for the comfort of those left behind). It's about the awareness that the deceased would understand that, but still want their wishes honored. It's about the obligation to honor them.

It's about the phenomenon of childhood (and to some extent, adulthood) called "magical thinking" in which we think we can cause things to happen just by thinking about them and it's first cousin, superstition, also known as "sympathetic magic".

It's about that phenomenon by which, after someone's death, we do double-takes, thinking we have seen them on the street--we see people who look like them. It's about our awareness that new people and events remind us so intensely of the person who is gone, that we begin to wonder about the nature of the universe and the connections and properties that we don't have any way of understanding. It's about a daughter with a deep belief in the practical existence of other layers of consciousness for which we don't have names, or even descriptors.

It's about my dad.

[Dad? Listen. This is not a memorial. Don't get all upset. I know you wouldn't like that. This is about me. And better yet, it's about economics, something I bet you thought I'd never be writing about or interested in. That part would make you laugh, I just know it. So let's just go with that, okay?]

So....(deep breath)....here we go.

This is my dad:

This is my dad when he was young (suave, eh?):

And this is Paul Krugman:

Huh? INTRUDER! Just as stealthily as he has made his way into the national conversation about economic policy, he has inserted himself, right here, right now, into MY blog (Geez, he has his OWN, what does he need mine for?), and in my story about my dad, no less!

(It's okay. I did it. He belongs here. Put the dogs away, and I will explain.)

We're gonna do something different here. We're gonna start at the end.

My dad, Robert Einzig, died on June 29, 2007, at a young 85. That's almost two years ago now, which I can scarcely believe. He died of an aggressive leukemia/lymphoma that was not even diagnosed until a week after his death. The time from his "falling ill" to his death was less than 24 hours, not enough time to get to the coast he lived on from the coast I live on.

You already know how he felt about memorial services.

He was cremated, and his ashes were scattered, from a small plane, over the Pacific Ocean, not far from Half Moon Bay. Bye, Dad. End of story. At least as far as he was concerned.

But then, things started to happen.

The first thing that happened was that, along with my sisters, I stayed. I cleaned. I organized. And I found out that I was now "in charge" of keeping track of the finances (because hey, I'm a child development consultant, and the parallels are clear).

Here's how that kind of thing works, I now understand. When a parent dies, and there is more than one child, it turns out that for any given task, there is a child who is what I call "The Person" (Capital T, Capital P). And if you are The Person for a particular task, then you just are, there's nothing you can do about it. It's not influenced by geography, like, for example, if you happen to live on the opposite side of the country while you have siblings who live a few minutes away. It's not influenced by your experience and particular skill set. I'm living proof of that. It's influenced by your surviving parent, and that's about it. We are pawns in the game of life. Admit it.

In the days following his death, I thought and talked very little about what my dad did for a living, and a lot about the drawings that he did in college that were still located, after all these years, in the drawer in the living room. I thought about his drawers and boxes and shelves full of art supplies that he loved but hardly used (sounds like someone I know). I thought about the stories about how he wanted to be an artist, but how it wouldn't provide for a family (you're tellin' me). I thought about what I needed to mark this passage, to keep him with me. And I started to make the jewelry that I had envisioned for years before his death. It's still going. You can read the whole story on my website..it's all there.

But that is not all. Oh, no, that is not all.

My dad was an economist, a prominent one in his day. He worked for the Federal Reserve, was an officer at Transamerica, consulted with companies all over the world, taught graduate economics at Berkeley, and consulted to presidents. The way I knew he was "prominent" was because he was on TV talking about things I didn't understand when I was a kid. That was it. Even in black and white. "Daddy's on TV!" and I'd run into the TV room to watch. But mostly, he was my dad.

Now, he had the great misfortune (it was a family joke) to have four daughters, none of whom went into economics or finance--we are all in either social services or writing, or some combination thereof. In his later years, though, as I became more interested in learning about his field, he would always answer all of my questions. He seemed to know everything--not just because he was my father--but because he would predict things or explain things, and then a few days or weeks later, they would show up in the NY Times. It amazed me. When pundits predicted dire economic trends, I would call him and say "Is it true, Dad?" And he would say, most often "No.". Or sometimes "well, here's what's going on...." followed by his prescription for remedying it. All the pundits would disagree. I'd challenge him, because "they said...". And a week later, the paper would announce exactly what he had said. They'd changed their minds, or maybe they just "understood it better".

The one other thing that bears mentioning is that my father, as a Jewish intellectual who grew up poor and was a veteran of World War II, had a, shall we say, "healthy" overt disdain for a lot of things and a lot of people (which clearly distinguishes him from me, eh?). Economists seemed to be pretty high on that list. He seemed to think that pretty much everyone who was quoted in the papers was, in his words "not so bright" (or worse) and clearly did not have a very sophisticated understanding of finance (by his standards, of course).

But for years, and years, whenever I visited, he would always say "Now that Paul Krugman....now THERE'S a smart one." Praise upon praise. I had never seen him refer to anyone else in this way. I figured that Krugman must agree with him, that's why he thought he was so bright. :) That's the kind of person he was, what can I say. I kept thinking that one of these days, I'd find out who this Paul Krugman person is. But I didn't, becuase, well, like I said, I'm in child development.

So a year passes. And then a few months more. The economy is taking a nosedive, and I'm thinking that maybe my dad was holding it all together, since he understood everything, and now that he's gone, it's headed straight into the toilet. (see what I mean about magical thinking?) And I'm wondering how I'm going to learn more about finances and financial planning and wondering how I wound up being The Person about this, and who would I ever ask for help when he was the only one I ever asked, and would my dad be proud of me for managing it or would he be shaking his head and making that "tsk" sound he often made. I was worried.

It was October 12, and I was driving around in my car, here in Massachusetts, and suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, it came into my head. I have no idea why it took so long. Paul Krugman! If I tried to listen to and read and understand Paul Krugman (to the best of my ability), it would be the closest thing I could get to listening to my dad. Paul Krugman! That's it! I knew nothing about him. But I got to work.

The next morning, Paul Krugman won the Nobel prize in economics. This is what he said about it on his blog. One line. I cried all day. I called my mom. She already knew.

This kind of stuff happens to me. All the time.

So now I read Paul Krugman's blog every day. He's a brilliant economist (my dad said so), and he explains things well. And he's also a real person, a real blogger, posts up to 6 times a day. Today, his blog was about getting stuck in an airport and having to listen to reports about Sarah Palin's daughter and her boyfriend. It's kind of unreal.

This week, a lifesize picture of Paul Krugman's face graces the cover of Newsweek. I feel like some kind of secret trendsetter. It's an incredible article, by the way, (click on the picture to access it), even though this is what he had to say about it.

Read it. It's not too heady. It's important stuff. And heck, this is the closest thing to a memorial service my dad will ever have (sshhhh), so let's just say "you're doing it for a friend in the army".
If it worked for Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, it can work for you.

I'll just sit here and wait for the next weird thing to happen.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming....