MY DAD WAS A FLAMENCO DANCER

… and an opera singer, a detective, a novelist, an FBI agent, a tap dancer, a spy. Or so he told countless people he came in contact with over the years.

He had a wicked sense of humor and loved to schmooze. He certainly had a way with waitresses and all my girlfriends. Yes, he was a kibitzer extraordinaire and oh the tales he would spin.

Oy, what he got away with!

But who could resist that brilliant smile of his and those Paul Newman eyes?

Gosh he was the cutest man and could he ever rock a fedora and later in life his favorite cap with the short brim.

He never missed an event, recital, concert or play I was in. He was my hero, my protector. My biggest fan. And I was his.

When I began to walk, he took my hand and guided the way. When I began to run, he let me stumble – always there for encouragement, advice and direction.

He taught me to ride a bike, throw a ball and drive a car, to love with all my heart and believe in myself.

My dad was kind, intelligent, gentle, insightful, loyal, principled, handsome and funny. He taught me to be kind, to respect and embrace differences… and he led the way by example.

We didn’t always agree, but he listened and challenged and acknowledged my viewpoints. Racial slurs, bigotry and derogatory language were not tolerated in our home or within earshot … he was my shining example of ‘talk the talk, walk the walk’ when he immediately showed the door to a guest in our home for such language.

He would mischievously tease my mom – and yet, with warm displays of affection and loving utterances sweep her off her feet daily. There was such unwavering love and spirited laughter between my parents. How lucky I was to be the fly on the wall for all of it!

I have such sweet childhood memories of hanging out at his office – pretending to be his secretary. He offered long-winded math problems so I could add them up on the adding machine and dictated significant letters to me as I typed away.

The example below, where he introduces me as his personal secretary, is framed and currently hanging just above my desk … always within sight.

Saturday mornings were spent watching cartoons. We held hands (often crying) during schmaltzy commercials and emotional movies or headed to local baseball games where we’d cheer for our favorite player, “goooo tush”.

My dad was thoroughly engaged in MY education – reading all of my textbooks, helping me with homework and was quite incensed when WE got a ‘B’ on a particular English paper.

He was passionate about history and politics … whether reading, discussing or debating. Sure wish I had paid lots more attention to all that wisdom.

There were dinner dates … just the two of us … where I eagerly waited for the moment when he would lean in to whisper (which he always did), “everyone’s looking at us and wondering how a guy like me got to be with such a beautiful young lady”.

Could he cook? Strictly gourmet – soup from scratch with a secret ingredient called “Campbells”.

Was he a handyman? Not one of his strong suits – he would call friends to brag if he changed a light bulb.

When stricken with a tiny cold or, god forbid, the full-blown flu – he was a H U G E baby. Illnesses large and small prompted him to ‘take it to the next level’ by calling many friends to “say his goodbyes”.

He could add up multiple figures in his head, recall baseball line-ups and statistics from years ago (a huge Cubs fan), do card tricks, balance on his elbows and play a mean game of thumb war.

However, he was a very  sore loser when it came to playing the board game “Sorry”.

Coming home to a stranger in our living room was not unheard of. My dad enjoyed his heart-to-hearts with the people selling magazine subscriptions or pushing religious dogma.

And being the pied piper of the block prompted kids to ring the doorbell asking if Mr. Frankel could come outside and play.

My dad served in the Army during WWII as a radiotelegraph operator in Europe; often tapping out his Morse code ‘dot and dashes’ as he was deep in thought while seated at our kitchen table.

We vacationed in exotic places, like the ‘suburbs’, where we sang at the top of our lungs during the car rides …“Over There”, “K-K-K-Katy” ,“Pack Up Your Troubles”, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary“. (I might have been the only 9-year-old with an expansive repertoire of WWI songs.)

His career as a real estate and mortgage broker meant spending occasional weekends driving around neighborhoods with him to ogle homes or make appearances at open houses.

He loved surprise parties … for himself.

Days leading up to his birthday were filled with incessant questioning addressing the big surprise blowout he just knew we were planning. Who would be there?Where would they hide? How would they trick him? All confirmed by supposed evidence of whisperings.

And every year, on his birthday, he would enthusiastically search the house positive he would discover all those hidden friends waiting to yell SURPRISE !! 

Well, I’d never seen my dad spring up in the air with such height as the year he was one hundred percent flawlessly surprised. It was wonderful.

Being quite ill the last years of his life was difficult on all of us. But when you didn’t think he was listening or aware of what was going on around him, he would often surprise us with wonderful glimmers of his funny self.

Back when the news was continually rehashing the brouhaha surrounding the question of biological paternity of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby – my dad, slumped over and to all appearances asleep, suddenly lifted his head to exclaim, “I am the father dammit”.

And with much of the family seated around the dining table singing a song we had all learned from the three Frankel brothers, my dad gloriously raised his head to sing an additional verse none of us had ever heard before. All of us … including his brother and nieces and nephews … witnessed this final gift.

He passed away that night.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY TO THE FIRST MAN I EVER LOVED

Daddio – how fortunate I am to have been raised and protected and loved by you. I’m thinking of us dancing together, first as a little girl balancing on your feet and eventually gliding across the floor doing “our” dance – that you choreographed. This memory fills me with infinite joy.

I miss you terribly. How proud you would be of your two engaging, compassionate, beautiful granddaughters – and oh how they “windowed” you.

As you would say to me…. I love YOU xoxoxoxoxoxox to infinity.

ALSO THIS MAN

How I loved my dear father-in-law, a livestock and crop farmer, whose ruggedly handsome face radiated warmth. His enormous hands would grip you with intensity and his brawny arms wrapped you in hugs. He welcomed me and my Jewish family with those brawny arms.

He adored his Dorothy and her fried chicken and a plateful of strawberries smothered in chicken fat … huh? That’s what I said the first time it was plated for me (and no thank you).

With a full head of wavy hair and that glint in his eyes he lovingly teased and adored his granddaughters. He had six of them as each of his three offspring had a pair.

Grandpa Boo to my girls.

He was curious and interested in all matters of the world and whenever I left the city for a weekend visit to the farm he and I would plant ourselves at the kitchen table to chat well after everyone had gone to sleep. Love and miss him.

He called me ‘Blondie’.

and this man too

A shout out to this loving, devoted, encouraging dad (the best partner in life I could have ever wished for) with his girls … this sweet photo says it all: