"I'm already there
Take a look around
I'm the sunshine in your hair
I'm the shadow on the ground
I'm the whisper in the wind
I'm your imaginary friend
And I know I'm in your prayers
Oh I'm already there"
This is the last time I will be fortunate enough to write one of these tributes, as last night I received a call from my sister letting me know, "Dad was gone." My father, Simon Rosenbaum, was now back with my Mom having a long visit and conversation; he passed away where he wanted to spend his final years, months and days of his life—he left us in the bed he shared with my Mom for decades, until her passing more than five years ago.
The same bed that witnessed wrestling matches between my brother and I, countless nights watching TV—as their room provided the option when the other TV was showing something I didn't want to watch—and countless conversations when both my Mom and Dad would lie in bed on the weekends talking. These were more than special times, these are implanted memories.
My Dad was really cool. He was not a real vocal man, although he did have an opinion. As far as genes, I missed out on the one that reflected his calmness and gentle demeanor. Nothing, and I mean nothing, rattled my Dad. Well, there was one time, and I am sure my brother remembers, but that's a different story and probably one of only five times I had ever heard my Dad raise his voice. Not bad for someone who was 31,592 days old.
I have great memories of my Dad and that's how I will remember him. These past few years were not representative of the man who taught me so much, but he was truly connected in conversation the last time we spoke this past Wednesday. I knew something was not right; he let me know he was really not feeling well. This from someone who never complained—I knew, or at least suspected, the end was nearing.
Simon Rosenbaum was born on August 31, 1928. His upbringing was not easy as witnessed by many during those turbulent days prior to, during, and after the Great Depression sucker punched America and the world. He used to tell a story, and it was recalled when I saw him early last month, that growing up he was so poor his family could not afford to give him a middle name! That was my Dad. He was gentle, kind and had a very engaging sense of humor.
Probably one of the greatest traits my Dad had was—his being a very fair man. He gave people a chance when they were very down on their luck. I remember when I was much younger, he would hire men from the Salvation Army to work on our lawn. If you have lived in St. Louis, or visited there in the summer, you know it can be brutal. Not only were the men out there sweating their butts off, my Dad stood beside them helping.
Selfishly there was no way I was going to do it, and he gave these men, who had witnessed extreme challenges in life, a chance to make money and feel useful once more. Most important, he treated them with respect and purpose. That was my Dad, that was Si Rosenbaum!
My father taught me the values of life, the reason for treating others as you would want to be treated, and most important, what kindness looks and feels like up close. When he was born, the mold wasn't just broken, it was smashed.
The photo above was taken long ago. My brother, sister, Dad and I posed for a photo when I was in the Veiled-Prophet Parade—a St. Louis tradition. It was so long ago I don't remember how I was chosen or what entailed; what I do know—surrounding me, and outside the picture where my Mom must have been standing as she really did not like being in photos, was my entire family. How lucky I am to have been a part of it all!
Dad as I sit here on the plane, waiting to land in St. Louis, I suspect you, Mom, Uncle Joe and Aunt Shirley, have just gotten back from reuniting with all of our family who are all sorely missed. It must have been one hell of a homecoming!
I love you Dad—thank you for allowing me to be your son, you will never be forgotten.
Thanks for stopping by.
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