The first man in my life was Sol “Slats” Ruben. My first dreamlike memory of my father was of him holding me on his shoulders looking out the back of a train as we were leaving on a summer trip to Union Pier. The next memory was of me taking a bath with him and my brother and seeing the very different apparatus that men and boys had. Then there was the memory of the heart breaking evening when my father left for his night shift job at a bakery. I remember my brother and I watching him leave and crying for hours.

My other memories are more vague…

-Daddy taking us tobogganing at Dan Ryan Woods with our friends Jeanette Lederer and her younger brother.

-His telling me after I had an argument with my mother that no matter what I did, I would be okay.

-Me nervously preparing to make an “In the Beginning” oration at the Invite Competition representing Chaveros BBG, and having my father telling me to relax, that I would be fine.

-My father realizing that he could not teach me how to drive. He kept yelling STOP! NO! Not that way! We stopped those lessons and I ended up paying a professional for driving lessons, and finally getting my driver’s license when I was 21.

Then, later when I was 24, divorced, and living on the north side of Chicago, Daddy would show up at my apartment on Sunday mornings. We would walk my marvelous dog Fraulein along the lakeshore. Those were wonderful times because it was just me and him. One of the reasons my early memories of my father are so vague is because my mother dominated our contact when she was present. So, these times were special because it was just him and me.

Years passed and my mother died. My relationship with my father restarted. I remember waking up and telephoning him, knowing that he was an early riser. I would hear the catch in his voice as he realized my mother was gone. I would tell him that I would come right over. Once I came to his apartment, he would forget himself and spend his time fussing over me. He would feed me breakfast and for awhile, forget his loss. Then, it felt like I could leave him by himself and continue on to work.

Later, I would bring my dog, the redbone coonhound Ribsey to his apartment, telling my dad that I needed him to take care of Ribsey while I went to work. It was actually a subterfuge in order to force him to leave his home, go outside, and interact with people. You cannot walk a dog without a certain percentage of people stopping and talking with you and asking you if they can pet your dog. As he seemed to be getting stronger, I asked him to help out by coming to my apartment for a few days a week to walk Ribsey. I knew that I helped him slowly recover from the early days of his grief.

Time passed and he moved into a senior housing apartment off of Grace and Lake Shore Drive. Over time, the apartment became more and more encrusted. When I would visit him in his apartment, I would get angry because I felt obligated to clean. Me, someone who hated cleaning. I called the Council for Jewish Elderly. We did an intake with a social worker and arranged for someone to come clean his home. But, my father refused to allow the woman in his apartment. Old school parents expect their children to come and clean. I wasn’t an old school daughter. After his first refusal, I came with Ribsey and picked him up outside of his building. We were distracted by the dog as we walked off our anger with each other.

Eventually, Harry came into my life. I remember introducing them to each other. We had breakfast at our favorite spot. I paid for breakfast mistakenly thinking it was my responsibility because it was me asking my boyfriend to meet my father for the first time. Big mistake! My father decided Harry was a bum. Otherwise, Harry would have picked up the check. Harry’s response was unexpected. He said, “I can do that. I can see him once a month.” I was totally shocked. Every man that I had ever been involved with had avoided spending time with my father. Harry understood family ties and respected those ties. Harry was a keeper!

Time passed and Harry and I got engaged. I told my father. He told me that we should just have a small ceremony since this marriage was not a first marriage for either of us. What my father did not understand was that Harry and I were so thrilled about finding each other that we wanted a BIG celebration to share with our friends and family. I will always remember my father showing up to our wedding wearing a cowboy shirt. Although it was totally inappropriate, since he was not walking me down the aisle, no one really cared, and I was just happy he was there to support me.

My father was already phasing in to medium level dementia. Six months later while the two of us were out having dinner, he started talking nonsensically. Then he told me that he had not taken his insulin. He also believed that he had no money when he had $200 in his pocket. I promptly took him to the emergency room at Weiss Memorial Hospital. Although he received treatment at the hospital and was even transferred to the Ravenswood Hospital for rehabilitation, his condition did not improve. It was no longer safe for him to live on his own so I needed to move him to the Lieberman Geriatric Center. This move was a bit difficult at first. But, the nursing staff were able to explain to him that his building was not allowing him to return home. Fortunately, he liked the nurses and the attention they gave him and fully adjusted to his new home.

My Father Sol was known as “Slats”. This nickname was given to him as a kid. I always thought it was because he was skinny, but he said it was a rift on his mom calling him “Shlomy”. He was a neighborhood legend. As a senior in Englewood High School, he joined the baseball team. Despite having a paralyzed right hand from polio, his natural athleticism allowed him to become a star player. Slats was the all city first baseman on a team that won the city championship! When asked how he did it, he modestly said his successful performance was the result of the support he received from his team. His teammates knew how to throw the ball to him in a manner that allowed him to catch it. My father went on to try out for the majors, but the professional team members did not appreciate his talents or provide him the support he needed. But, in his neighborhood, he remained a hero. Even when he was in his seventies, anywhere we went, there was always some man from the old neighborhood that would jump up when he recognized my dad. We would hear someone call out “Slats! Slats Ruben, how are you?”

My father was also a very good looking man. Even as a senior, he was the best looking man at his nursing home. I still have his senior ID card so I can remember how handsome he was throughout his life. I will always miss my father, but am also grateful for all the warm and loving memories of the time we shared together – especially when it was just the two of us.