It was difficult to coordinate our steps—his halting, mine impatient—and because of that, we didn’t say much as we went along. But as we started out, he always said, “You set the pace. I will try to adjust to you.”
Our usual walk was to or from the subway, which was how he got to work. He went to work sick, and despite nasty weather. He almost never missed a day, and would make it to the office even if others could not. A matter of pride.
When snow or ice was on the ground, it was impossible for him to walk, even with help. At such times my sisters or I would pull him through the streets of Brooklyn, NY, on a child’s sleigh to the subway entrance. Once there, he would cling to the handrail until he reached the lower steps that the warmer tunnel air kept ice-free. In Manhattan the subway station was the basement of his office building, and he would not have to go outside again until we met him in Brooklyn, on his way home.
When I think of it now, I marvel at how much courage it must have taken for a grown man to subject himself to such indignity2 and stress. And at how he did it—without bitterness or complaint.
He never talked about himself as an object of pity, nor did he show any envy of the more fortunate or able. What he looked for in others was a “good heart”, and if he found one, the owner was good enough for him.
Now that I am older, I believe that is a proper standard by which to judge people, even though I still don’t know precisely what a “good heart” is. But I know the times I don’t have one myself.
Unable to engage in many activities, my father still tried