Cut Velvet

by Wendy Golenbock

When I was a child, my father would accompany my mother and me to many Broadway shows and other events.  I never thought he liked Broadway musicals or any other outing, because he would spend the entire time watching from Mom to me to Robert to Peter to mom.  He simply enjoyed each of his mishpocha as we enjoyed the shows.  He never seemed to look at the stage and he wore a huge grin as he reveled in our enjoyment.  Mom and I had, and still have, an annoying habit of singing along with the Broadway star, and he was the only one in the universe who thought we were adorable. 

As the Parkinson’s affected Dad’s muscles, his memories were distinct.  He would sit and listen to show tunes for hours and I could envision him remembering our smiles as we loved the shows so very much.  The songs in the background are some of Mom and my favorites, for that is how he would have wanted it—you see our favorites became his favorites, because he loved us so very much.

Mom taught us to call “daddy” in the middle of the night, and so we became equally bonded to both of our parents.  They led cub scouts, and signed us up for oil painting classes, ballet, tap, and tennis lessons, and went on ski trips although neither of them ever skied.  They watched field hockey and baseball, and basketball and feigned interest so well that it wasn’t until we were grown that we realized dad knew absolutely very little about sports, and he watched no professional sports.  

I began reading mystery novels with dad when I was five or six.  The first four syllable word I sounded out was ‘sonofabitch’ strung together as one word.  He read, and we read. 

The things that Dad loved most in the whole world, were his prize possessions, his gems, the jewels of his fleet—his grandchildren Janice, Daniel, Charles, and Max.  He was happiest seated amongst them.  And he watched Janice’s dance, Daniel’s tennis and chess, Charles’ baseball and Max’ soccer with the same love that he watched us enjoy musicals.  During Max’ Bar Mitzvah weekend, Dad watched in rapture as Max score a goal as his school team beat another of its many challengers. 

Dad also loved Jane and Cheryl.  His children had been in their relationships for more than twenty-five years, something we learned from his more than 60 years of marriage. And without a doubt Dad loved Mom, who waited on his every crank.

The best advice I every got from my father I will pass along to his grandchildren.  “If you are about to do something and you are unsure if you should do it, think of me and don’t do it”.  If you are sure of what you are doing then nothing can stop you, but if you are at all unsure, think of Grandpa’s words and don’t do it.

Today when we remember Dad, tell a corny Jewish joke, like number 7.  (We didn’t think # 7 was funny either, but we loved ‘cut velvet’).   Remember that he slurped soup, that he snored like Alfred Hitchcock’s profile, and that he loved his family and his wife.  And he would want you to laugh. 

So, in closing let us remember the famous lines of Myron Cohen or what Dad’s children called ‘joke number four’:

“Jack jumped from the window of his shop last week.” “Really,” the other responds, “Poor Jack — business was so bad he had to commit suicide!” “He didn’t get killed,” the first explains, “He fell on a bundle of returns.” When things get really bad, Jack eludes the arms of his partner and leaps again from the window. As he is falling he passes the windows of the loft below in which he sees two hundred sewing machines busily whirring. He calls up to his startled partner, “Morris, cut velvet!”

Cut velvet. We love you Pop just as you loved Mom and each of us.