Mogen David

originally published in ArtPrize Anthology

“How are you today, Bob?” someone in the retirement community would inevitably ask my dad. “Crabby!” He would respond without hesitation. This was always followed by a good laugh from the person doing the asking. It was all in the delivery. Despite his desire to communicate a “bah humbug” demeanor, my three-hundred-pound, wheelchair bound dad was really more teddy than grizzly bear. And at Christmas, despite his Ebenezer Scrooge ways, he was always more Santa Claus. He never wanted to put up a tree. He didn’t want family to make a fuss. He just wanted to give presents. 

He was always that guy who would slip you a $2.00 bill, or give you a candy bar, or made sure you grabbed “a pop from the riffy” the minute you walked in the door. His generosity, even on this small scale, drove my controlling, slightly neurotic mother nuts. The complexity of that relationship is best saved for another day. This is meant to be a heartwarming story, not a lesson in dysfunctional families. 

Moving on. 

After my mother passed, my father moved in to a small, one-bedroom apartment in a complex for retirees. He wasn’t much for social activities with the old folks. He didn’t like bingo or travel shows but his quick wit, kind heart and impressive storytelling abilities during communal mealtimes made him a favorite between workers and residents alike. 

Each Christmas, he would ask me to buy a dozen or so small presents that he could gift to the staff. This included perfumes, chocolates, flavored coffees, lotions, etc. In addition to the various sundries and treats, I always had strict orders to buy a pint of bottom-shelf whiskey for Mike, the janitor and apricot brandy for Cheryl, his caregiver. When I’d arrive with presents in tow, I’d have to review all the gifts with him.

“Show me what you got,” he’d say, clapping and rubbing his hands excitedly. I’d hold up gift after gift. “That’s nice,” he’d say, “I think Sue, the cleaning lady, will like that.” Or “Hide that one! I want Jessie, from the kitchen, to have that.” On and on he’d go. When it came to the chocolate, he would usually offer a “You paid how much for that?” Spending money on good chocolate was lost on him. “Why buy Godiva when Three Musketeers are just as good?” After he approved each purchase, I’d display them on his cedar chest. Then, without fail, as I was leaving, he’d motor his scooter over and peruse them all over again. No doubt he would re-organize and look over them each morning until all the gifts were gone. 

One year he phoned me a few weeks before Christmas and asked me a question. “Do Jewish people still drink that Mogen David wine for Hanukkah?” “That Mogen David wine?” I chuckled. Why on Earth did he want to know this? He then added, “Will you please go pick up a Hanukkah card and, if they drink that wine, pick me up a bottle of that, too?” That was an interesting request. “Why?” I asked. “There’s a Jewish guy that lives here. Everyone is always throwing Christmas up around here and there’s that one lone Jewish guy. He should get something Jewish.” 

Taking my orders, I went investigating on his behalf. (My Catholic upbringing left me unable to answer the question myself.) Lo and behold, I learned from a friend that some Jewish people, especially older Jewish people, like the sweet wine. I went to the local grocer and picked up a bottle of Maneschewitz (similar to “that Mogen David”). I phoned to ask if he wanted me to sign the card. He gave me an emphatic, “No! Just bring it to me. Cheryl will fill out the card.” I couldn’t imagine what personal message he wanted Cheryl (his caregiver) to write that I couldn’t, but I didn’t ask. I brought the wine, a Hanukkah card and Hanukkah gift bag a few days later. 

A few weeks later I stopped over to my pops. I realized I had never asked him about the Hanukkah gift. “Hey Dad, did that guy like his gift?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know?” I pushed. “Nope,” he responded. He seemed to be communicating in that half conversation, non-forthcoming way that my husband uses when he wants to drive me slowly insane. I kept pushing. “Well, did he thank you?” While I knew there were some curmudgeons that lived in this community of senior citizens this seemed like such a nice gesture. I thought surely, he was thanked. After a pause, he offered quietly, “He doesn’t know it was me.” I was confused. 

My father explained. The gentleman that he gifted the wine to was the neighbor in the apartment next door. I was surprised. I knew immediately that this was the cranky guy that did not like my dad. This was the guy that kept his television so loud that it bled through the walls. This was the guy who made it so my dad had to wear earplugs in his own apartment. This was the guy who, after repeated requests to turn down the volume, left my dad with no other option than to call the management and complain. This was the guy that was so unhappy he was called out for his loud television habit that he stopped talking to my dad. He continued. “I didn’t tell him it was me. Why would I do that? He doesn’t like me.” My father shared this in a very matter of fact way. There wasn’t anything to talk about. Everyone got presents and this guy should, too. End of story. 

I was speechless. 

A few months after my father passed, I attended a lecture given by a Rabbi. He explained that in Judaism the act of giving is called a mitzvah. He shared that giving anonymously is one of the higher forms of mitzvah. As he spoke, I couldn't help but think of my father. I cried. 

I once read an inscription in one of my dad’s old yearbooks. It read, “Hey Bob! I know I don't know you well, but thanks for the candy bars!” My father had a compulsion to give his whole life. I sometimes wanted him to stop. I felt like he was doing it for the wrong reasons; that he was doing it for acceptance. I thought it was unhealthy. (I am my mother’s daughter, after all.) I learned otherwise that day. 

Over my lifetime I watched my father give. Yet it wasn't until that moment I realized that in his giving, over and over again, year after year, I saw that his generosity was not something he did, but something he had become. Through his lifetime of mitzvah he became not only the giver, but also the gift.