Last January, my dead father visited me on his yahrzeit. It was about 6:AM and I awokened suddenly to the sound of hissing. At first, I thought perhaps I had failed to unset the clock-radio. But this incoherent hissing continued and I tried to localize where it was coming from. I realized this hissing was the sound of water and I went over to the part of the room where I was hearing it. I saw water gushing--I thought coming from the wall i shared with the apartment next door. I grabbed the phone and called maintenance, telling them there was a water leak in my apartment from another apartment. I ran to the bathroom to grab a towel and as I knelt to put the towel to the wetness, I realized that there was no water coming from the wall. It was all coming from under a seltzer bottle. I subscribe to a seltzer service (only in NYC, right). I get 10 bottles twice montly. Old fashioned seltzer bottles like you see in the knockabout comedies. Like you see on the Three Stooges--nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. The sound of hissing was the sound of water escaping from the pressurized container. Each bottle contains about a quart of seltzer. It makes quite a pool.
My father loved the Three Stooges. Their comedy was broad, physical, non-verbal, coarse. They lacked nuance. So did my father. I could see him picking up the seltzer bottle and letting it loose and thinking himself quite a wag. Plus, it certainly is attention-grabbing. It all made sense--6AM--his usual time of rising. The seltzer bottle. His yahrzeit. It must be his dybbuk. Why visit me instead of my mother? My mother has moved from one rehab to another, another assisted living to another in the past three years. My brother has moved three times. I have lived in this address for 18 years now--I'm the only one he can find.
My father was a difficult man. He was irascible, short-tempered. He screamed first, learned the facts later. He was not verbal. I doubt I heard more than a half dozen words from him all my life. When I was young, it was easier for him. He made me my first desk, when I was three. I was thrilled--it has a real working drawer. He used to amuse young children by wriggling his ears and making quacking sounds. That pales real quick. He couldn't talk. He wasn't mean and he wasn't physically violent. When he was angered, he would just walk out of the house. When he came back, "he's over it, it's done, we're turning the page, we're starting a new chapter." Of course, i was even angrier that he walked out and we couldn't even talk about that, let alone whatever had started the argument. I hold grudges.
But the thing about my father is--he can surprise. When I was 3 years old, I had to go to my cousin's bar-mitzvah. I did not want to go. I wasn't supposed to go. I was supposed to stay home with my uncle and my brother was supposed to go. But my brother got measles and my parents didn't think it fair to burden my uncle with two children. So off I went. Believe me, I was unhappy. I was missing Caspar the Friendly ghost. It was a long journey. I was in the baby seat (which had a toy steering wheel with a toy horn. I tried to imitate my father's driving, He was sooo boring. He never honked the horn. Eventually, I decided to be a solo act with the honking. Then we got to the bar mitzvah. It was soooo boring. I believe i got antsy and my father, took me out. I was surprised by his gentleness. He put my on his shoulders and we went for a walk around the neighborhood. Much later on, when I was about to leave for college, he took me aside and wanted me to promise him something. I thought-=-oh no, he's going to tell me not to have sex or anything. But he said to enjoy myself and take in the full load of whatever they had to offer--but don't hitchhike rides (Suny-B's orientation material included how to safely hitch. They made it seem like a normative event). In his later years, he uttered a few more words in sentence like formations. During one of the welfare reform talks, he mentioned what it was like growing up on the dole. My grandfather was a very difficult man. He was frequently unemployed. During the Depression, they were living on the periphery. Many of his brothers became rich. My grandfather, being difficult, quarreled with them all and sired the poor Kahns. So the relatives would drop off care packages in a way that made clear their contempt for my grandfather and all whom he spawned. From that, my father believed that if you give, you give with no strings. Secondly, they were on the dole. He recalled the anxiety and watchfulness. The whole street would be watching for "the social worker" whom regularly came to inspect and ensure that those on the dole had no hidden assets. My eldest uncle had built a radio out of crystal parts--if you had a radio, you weren't poor. When the cry, "social worker" went up, everybody ran. My father had to help hide the radio. He was forever bitter and always felt that welfare should not come with inspections. And never did like social workers, who were part of the machinery seeking to deprive the poor of their little relief. My father by that time was a civil engineer working for the Army. You certainly don't expect that attitude coming from a man who voted for Richard Nixon. Twice.
So, it makes sense that his dybbuk comes back and can express the mischievous side of him that he couldn't let out during his 881/2 years of repression. Why should a dybbuk have to be scary and vindicative? Who says it can't be undersocialized and serve a purpose in life. I believe in dybbuks and ghosts. Two days after his death, when my mother and I entered their apartment, i saw his ghosts rise rapidly from "his chair" and flee into the ether. My mother hadn't seen him. I saw what I saw. I experenced what I experienced. I believe in ghosts and dybbuks. I, however, believe that we are more interested in dead souls than they with us. Perhaps my father's spirit is lonely.