PATERFAMILIAS SCHTICK

My father was sweet and kind and lovable; he worked hard; he made nice; he was generous to Jewish charities; he was smart; he had friends; he was not a shikker, and he didn’t gamble or chase women or cheat anyone, ever. He had a fine tenor voice and a few magic tricks and some showmanship abilities. He bought books and newspapers and magazines to make us aware of the world. He told jokes and riddles and sang funny songs and entertained us. You’re wondering where I’m going with this. I’M wondering where I’m going with this. Here: He was, on a father-to-child basis, generally EXTREMELY CAREFUL with his money. He HAD it; he just didn’t want to SPEND it on something he saw as useless.

At age eight, I asked him for a quarter to buy Pick-Up Sticks. “No,” he said. “Your friend next door has Pick-Up Sticks. You can play with hers.” I cried and schrei-ed and had to be sent to my room, where I did some damage (more than 25 cents' worth) to the wallpaper with crayons. I wanted my OWN Pick-Up Sticks, and there was no consoling me. Father-type readers: It’s better not to alienate your child over small amounts of money. I’m 66 and I’m still thinking about (and resenting) that 25 cents.

I grew up with the sense that we were a dime away from the poorhouse. In reaction, I was probably overly generous to my kids while they were growing up, but not, I think, to the point of spoiling them. They always smelled that way.


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