Story 118: My favorite mentor

I am a high school teacher and college professor, and have mentored many students and teachers over the years. I have had many mentors too, but my best one and favorite was my first one my father M.

M. grew up in the Bronx and was very smart. He went Bronx High School of Science, NYU, and Brooklyn Law School. Although he never practiced, but instead worked for the city.

He stood 6 foot tall was bald and had a small pot belly. Probably from eating his favorite dessert black and white cookies. Interesting fact was that he once came in fourth place in an a Ed Koch look alike contest.

My father taught  me many things but the most valuable one was probably the importance of doing good deeds and helping.  That's probably why his four children all work in the helping professions in medicine, psychology, and in my case teaching.

He was the type of guy who if someone needed help he was always there. If you needed someone to babysit last minute he would be right over.  Need help waiting for the cable guy all day? No problem.  As long as he had his book he was ready to help. Also,  after he retired from working for the city, he spent a lot of time delivering food and money to poor Long Islanders for a charity called Hatzilu.  

M. also loved words.  He was a huge reader which has probably been my motivation to love books too.  I used to  joke that instead of a gold credit card he probably had gold library card.  Although my mother would sometimes complain, "M. Put the book down, I need your help with something important." which probably meant taking out the garbage, doing the laundry, or raking a few leaves.

Not only did M. enjoy reading but he like his mother R. loved to write too.  He wrote short stories and articles, and helped me with some of my papers during high school. However his writing almost didn't happen, because when he was in in the 5th grade M. wrote a poem about a waterfall called "The Cataract." His writing was so good that his teacher didn't believe he wrote it.  So he stopped writing for many many years.  Unfortunately I never got to read that poem.  Although I have read many of Grandmothers writings. 

From that incident I have made it a point that I never want to be that kind of teacher who crushes someones potential, but rather encourages them to be successful.

My father had a great sense of humor too, and told a terrific joke.  Something I do in the classroom sometimes too. Although they were frequently corny and sometimes dirty.  He had great timing.  My mother would often try to repeat them, but she invariably left out an important line.  

Probably the funniest thing about him was that he was funny even when he didn't intend to be.    He would do things like put parmesan cheese in his coffee by accident, and then complain that "Something's was wrong with the coffee N."

Or when he was in college doing ROTC and some old school drill sergeant yelled at my father for holding a rifle incorrectly, my father turned around and accidentally pointed the gun at the instructor.  After that my dad was on KP duty peeling potatoes.

When it raining out he would sometimes say to me a few times. "Don't forget your rubbers."  not realizing that rubbers had multiple meanings.

Driving with my father was also always an adventure as well.
My father taught me to drive but he had this habit of turning off the car if he didn't feel you were driving right.  You could be in the middle of the road and he would do it.  My fathers belief was always safety first. My brother Dan, the doctor, took three times to pass his road test.  I can't even imagine how many times my father turned off the car. 

My father was also very good at keeping his cool and solving problems when things are difficult. One time in the 1970's we were returning again from a family vacation in the Catskills and our car a ramble station wagon started to overheat.

My father pulled over to the side of the road, and looked under the hood. Billows of white smoke were coming from underneath. It reminded me of old faithful at Yellowstone National Park. M. however kept his cool unlike the car.

“Kids,” My father stated “I need you to look in the car for some water.”

So off we excitedly went  looking under every cushion nook and cranny, pennies went flying, it was like a scavenger hunt, but unfortunately we couldn’t find any water. Blame it on all the empty bags of potato chips on the floor.

“Sorry.” we said collectively.

It was then that my father had an epiphany.

“Aha!” my father yelled out as he reached into the trunk of the car.

“You found some water?” my mother asked expectantly.

“No, but I think this will work just the same.” He replied, and then triumphantly held up a full container of pure Mott’s apple juice.  He held it up with such pride you would think it was a new baby fresh from the delivery room, instead of  a plastic gallon jug from Waldbaums. 

“I think this should work.” He beamed.

And that’s what he did. After letting the engine cool a bit, he poured the juice into the radiator, and surprisingly it worked like a charm.  We made it back to Long Island, all of us smelling like apples the whole ride home.  

My father died ten years ago, and even though I can't remember all of his jokes, or probably never have half of his timing.   The moments we shared and lessons I learned will live me forever.