Remembering and Missing Dad’s Love, Humor . . . Even His Quirks

This is the column I never wanted to write.

My father, Ira James Kornheiser, died July 4, a few weeks shy of his 90th birthday.

People ask me if it was sudden and unexpected. I tell them it is always sudden. One minute, you’re on the phone with him, talking about how your air conditioner conked out, and the next time the phone rings, it’s your aunt calling from Florida saying, “He’s gone.”

It was 6:15. I was getting ready to drive to the National Mall in Washington for the fireworks. My dad had been in the hospital for a few days with fluid in his lungs. I hadn’t liked the tinny sound of his voice when I’d called the day before, and I’d asked my aunt, who “visits him every day,” if I should hurry down to Florida. She said the doctors assured her that there was no immediate danger. “Come down in August, around his birthday, like you’d planned,” she told me.

Excuse me, Tony, but are you going to be funny in this column?

Sorry. Not this one.

My father was born in 1910, before radio stations, before frozen foods, before Babe Ruth played major league baseball. He lived so long that he saw Halley’s comet twice! He wasn’t cheated like my mother was. He was healthy, and his mind was still sharp. Dad’s problem was his eyes. Macular degeneration hit him in his mid-80s and left him legally blind. He had to give up driving. Last year, he fell and broke his hips on two separate occasions. But he was still hale and walking reasonably well with a walker. Surely there is a technical medical explanation for what my dad died of. But I say it was from old age. His body just wore out.

After he moved into a retirement home 16 months ago, I kept his condominium in the event he ever wanted to come back--but I told him point-blank, “I’ve thrown out all the Styrofoam trays. I’m sorry, because I know you thought if there was a worldwide shortage of Styrofoam, you had the market cornered.” Last winter, I tried cleaning out the apartment, and I found collections only someone from the Depression would value: nails, rubber bands, pencil lead, old combs. (My dad had combs everywhere. Have I mentioned how much I hated him for living to almost 90 with a full head of hair?)

Years ago, I’d made my peace with my dad about how this would end. I had brought him up to Washington to look at an apartment. “I don’t want to live in cold weather,” he’d said. “And I don’t want to live in a high-rise. I want to stay where I am.”

“OK, but it means you’re going to die in Florida, and I may not be there when you go,” I said.

“I love you,” he said. “And I know you love me. Now, let me live where I want.”

I called him every day. I made sure to say “I love you” during every call. I don’t regret a second of our relationship--other than being 1,000 miles apart. The last time I saw him was in late spring. The family was down in Florida for a week, and every night, my son and I went to see my dad. We’d watch TV with him, and then, when he got tired, we’d leave. I kissed him every night, never knowing if I’d get the chance again.

When my aunt told me he was gone, I stood there holding the phone for a second, remembering the day 22 years ago when my dad called to say my mother had passed away. I never had brothers or sisters. Now, I had no parents.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “We were just going to the fireworks.” “Go,” my aunt said. “He’d have wanted you to go.”

Actually, he’d have wanted to go with me (which would’ve been fine, as long as he didn’t make me drive 25 miles out of my way to get nutmeg on sale for 49 cents instead of the usual 59 cents).

I wrote about my dad often and told funny stories about the quirks he had. He’d call and say, “You’re exaggerating terribly about me. I didn’t drive 25 miles out of my way to save 10 cents on nutmeg. First of all, it was paprika--and it was a big tin, and I saved a dollar.”

So, I went to the Mall to watch the July 4 fireworks. I listened to the great, booming noises and watched the colors explode around me, rising and falling in giant plumes, and I thought: “This is how I’m going to remember my father every year.”

I am still in shock, I think. Once a day, I pick up the phone to call him, then I gently put it down. I want to tell him about Elizabeth’s summer job as a baker, and how Michael is doing at camp. I never did anything major in my life without consulting my dad and seeking his advice. I want to ask him about buying a new car, or how often to clean the gutters, or how much I should tip the plumber. And I’ll never be able to do that again.