Sometimes, someone comes along and makes an indelible impression on a life. Indelible. For me, that’s Jessica Herman. She’s cut from a different cloth. Elegant. Smart. Sweet. And altogether one of the most down-to-earth women I’ve met. She’s an associate editor at Time Out Chicago magazine, and she’s one of the Dosettes, four women who host Dose, a once monthly market in Chicago which launched earlier this month. I’m so happy she set aside time to write something for this series. Her father’s impression on her life is, in a word, indelible.
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We’re thirty seconds into the Kiddish, and I’m giggling. So is my older sister, Lea. At the same time, she’s giving me a half “don’t even start” grin, knowing we’re about to get it from my father. She’s right. He shoots me a look and lets out a puff of frustration, as if to say, grow up and take this moment seriously. That was 15 years ago, when nearly every Friday night was dedicated to a Shabbat family dinner.
My dad is the farthest thing from a hard ass, but he places a high value on tradition and family and genuine shared experiences. He’s also a crier. Big time. And as we’ve all continued to age, it’s become a running joke, and expectation, that my father will cry when he’s touched by a gesture or experience.
It might sound strange to say that the thing my father taught me was how to cry. It would also be untrue. Whether it’s nature or nurture, I more likely inherited my seemingly bottomless tear ducts than learned how to cry. And if I had my druthers, I’d have more control over them than I do. Still, it’s a part of me that makes me feel like my father’s daughter. Over all these years, he’s led by experience to show me just how okay it is to show my emotions, too.
To paint a picture, my dad is 6’5’’. As a 62-year-old man, he’s tall and lanky, but when I was a kid, he carried me on his back for miles and miles of hiking trips through Yosemite, the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. His extraordinarily deep baritone voice stuck out in the crowd at Saturday morning services and James Taylor singalongs around the piano at our house. Based on looks alone, he’s not your average sensitive, new-aged man.
More importantly, though, is why he becomes emotional and what that means to me. It’s not that he’s a sad guy; he’s one of the silliest men I know [see Dad picking up my best friend, Emily, after a river rafting trip]. More often than not, it’s because he’s listening to my sister’s music, reading a letter from a student he mentored, reminiscing on a camping trip with his third-grade buddies, or saying goodbye at the end of one of my parents’ month-long February visits to Chicago. He jokes now that I’m always waiting for his tears, and to an extent, it’s true. Seeing him well up shows me how much he cares. That he’s both present and sentimental and perhaps also nostalgic. I wonder sometimes what he’s thinking about, and guess that he’s remembering his parents and wishing they were here with us, or just thinking about life cycles and where we’ll be in five or 15 years.
When I think about moving back to California, I think about what I miss with my father in relaying more stories over the phone than sharing them with him in person. I think about Friday night dinners, singing the prayers over the candles, and yes, welling up a little. I wish I were with you now when you read this, so I could see your reaction. Because, you know, if you don’t shed a few tears, I’ll be upset.
- Jessica Herman
An early supporter of all plaidout and one time Plaidy of the Week, Roséline has been a fount of inspiration long before I’d even considered starting a blog. She has such wonderful taste and a great sense of humor. Certainly, her father had something to do with that. Thank you, Roséline, for continuing to inform the world: {this is glamorous}.
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Things My Father Taught Me
- that time is money
- that i could be anything in the world i wanted
- that i should eat my oatmeal
- the virtues of early to bed & early to rise
- to treat others the way i want to be treated
- to photograph everything, for i will love the memories later on…
- that hard work always pays off
- to be prepared for anything
- how to ice skate, how to swim, how to ride a bicycle & how to drive
- that there is nothing that can not be fixed with ice cream
{images: vintage photographs by christina diaz; leica camera via a dustjacket}
Currie shares the space for her store Spartan in Austin, Texas with Lauren Wilkins. Currie and Lauren also share a great blog, Arrow and Arrow. Currie clearly has great taste and a sense of style, but what we learn here is that to live a great life, you must eat and drink well, take time to learn every day, and give of yourself as best you can all the time. Thank you, Currie, for putting something together for this series!
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THINGS MY FATHER TAUGHT ME
1. The importance & pleasures of generosity.
This lesson was equally imparted by both of my parents, the two most giving souls I know. In our house generosity is a pleasure, an honor, and a way of life, rather than a duty.
2. There are few things more enjoyable than cooking for others.
Just as his own father had done for him, Dad began our culinary education at an early age, and God bless him for it. My brother and I now both take immense pleasure in cooking for our partners, our families, our friends, and total strangers. I can hardly think of anything I would rather do than share a long beautiful meal with interesting company.
3. A good host never lets a drink run dry.
If you’ve ever had the opportunity to attend a party where Dad played bartender, you most likely had an amazing time & hardly remember any of the details.
4. The secret to eternal youth: Never stop learning and never stop moving.
My My father reads several newspapers cover to cover everyday, listens to recorded Science & History lectures while driving, and has embarked on language & creative writing classes in his 60s. He also plays golf or tennis nearly every day of the year, blistering 100 degree Texas heat be damned. In my opinion, it is this intellectual & physical vigor that empowers my father to walk fearlessly into any room, in any country, with people half his age or less, and mix it up with the best of ‘em.
5. A story should get better every time you tell it.
Dad never lets truth get in the way of a good yarn.
- Currie Person
“Dude, there was a bug — not kidding you — this big in my ear. Huge! Huge! Not even joking. The doctor needed tweezers that were this big.”
It was then I became completely enamored with my buddy, Lauren Wilkins, owner of Austin, Texas store Bows + Arrows.
We’d met once before, in the lobby of this ridiculously hip hotel in New York City, and it was either the low light or the loud music or the five Micheladas tearing at my stomach, but I failed to recognize the cool this chick carried. She has more cool in her back pocket than could fill three of those hotel lobbies. Pair fun, funny, and easy-going with an eye for life’s fineries, and you have Lauren Wilkins. That’s why, while driving a brand new Dodge Charger all over the Motor City, yapping on my phone with Wilkins, Coney Dog in hand, I started laughing so hard I had to pull over. I called her about business, but she didn’t want to talk about business. She wanted to tell me her epic Huge Bug In Ear tale. And after that, she became Korean Leon: the person I rely on for a great laugh, a great little inside joke, or a great night with friends new and old in a hidden Korea Town gem where we’re waited on hand-and-foot and Billy Moore orders for the table and who knows what that was but it was delicious. That’s Lauren Wilkins. That’s straight cool.
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My dad was raised outside of Dallas, He knew how to raise hell but not before getting things done in order to live life by his own rules. He worked hard to build the life he wanted without sacrificing his passion for living. He always made time for us, and he always did it looking good. Quickly, put together, and always movin’ on….
There was an art to the way he put himself together, but it was natural and it was influenced over time and experience. Named “Best Dressed” in high school, my dad was a man of his own style and was always put together. Always. Whether it was going to work, to dinner, or just hanging around the house. He was not a scrubby t-shirt and jeans man, even his casual clothes had a deliberate style, always classic. But as far as style goes – his classic simplicity has been the utmost influence on me and and why I do what I do today.
He was the one who took me shopping. That’s what we did together. We would run up to the mall after dinner, he took me on father/daughter vacations to New York and San Francisco for museums and shopping, and to the RL store on the weekends. The latter he would let me have my own little decorating projects, send me upstairs to the home floor and let me go to town. I got to decorate my room, the play room, design chairs, you name it….
I also got dragged to art galleries, flea markets, auctions, and exhibitions, anywhere with an assemblage of visuals and materials to absorb. Of course at the time, I didn’t appreciate the huge impact this would have on me aesthetically and culturally. But now I appreciate every bit of it. These little things that he surrounded me with and let me participate in with him has had an overwhelming impact on me. Including me on these little adventures shaped the way I see and appreciate things, but also in the way I understood those around me, both professionally and personally. Everyone has the potential to be a buddy. Sure, there’s a difference between work and personal but the person was always important He taught me early on to ALWAYS ask questions, be it to a stranger or a friend – and that being authentic in your interests is the most important thing in life. Maybe business is business, but relationships are fundamental, and every moment is a genuine opportunity to learn and grow.
My dad has allowed me to explore and experience my own mistakes, he’s always there for me no matter what and stands by my all of my personal decisions. He loves to participate in my store from both a business and creative perspective, but he knows when to take a step back. He will help me if I ask for it, but until I do… Ric likes to stop by the shop every now and then just to make sure the light bulbs are stocked and changed, and maybe share a tune or two.
- Lauren Wilkins
Lisa Warninger’s blog, Urban Weeds is a regular source of some of the most beautiful photography of some of the heppest cats strolling the byways of one of our country’s most prominent gems, Portland, Oregon. A city I have been dying to experience, Portland manages to portray itself as Alternative Central, this enclave where ideas and ideals flow like fine wine. A cyclists’ paradise, I love how bike tires manage to creep themselves into the edges of virtually every one of her photos. And it’s no wonder someone with Lisa’s eye, with her pure photographer’s ability has been able to find so much inspiration. Her patience is incredible. Her discoveries are enviable. She is a true artist. I’m thrilled she’s offered a bit of her time to this project.
Lisa’s shared some awesome old photos and lessons learned from her dad. Enjoy them, and enjoy Urban Weeds.
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My dad is a “don’t sweat the small stuff” kind of guy and an inspirational nonfiction addict. He’s constantly reading something with a positive message. He lives that way too. I don’t. Not always anyway.
Growing up, if I were to complain to him about anyone else, or speak poorly of someone, he was always quick to point out their hard work, and that they were trying. I suppose that’s one of the biggest things I’ve learned, that we’re all doing the best we can and there’s no need to get angry with each other. Now I rarely take anyone’s mean words or their snappy attitude personally and can respond with compassion. Who knows? Maybe their puppy died that morning; I don’t know. That’s the thing, we don’t know.
He taught me to give people a break. A big one.
Around the time I turned six dad would take me along on photo adventures. He shot landscapes with a large format Linhof field camera. He would set up the camera and lift me up to look through the magnifier loupe. Images appear upside down on a plate of glass, and to see them you’d have to be under the black sheet, like those photos you see of Ansel Adams, only then I didn’t know who he was. I just knew dad, and that was alright by me.
We would wait, the right light, the right clouds, and at the right moment he would take the one photo, then quickly flip the film holder over and take one more. They were printed quite large and he would sign his name with a silver pen in the bottom right hand corner, then he’d call me downstairs into his office and have me sign my name too.
He taught me patience and to wait until the time is right.
During his tour in Vietnam dad purchased and carried with him not only a Canon 35mm film camera but a movie camera as well. It wasn’t his duty, but documenting things seem to run in our very blood. The photos he took are not only historically interesting, but incredibly beautiful as well. I don’t know all the stories behind those photos, not yet, but that Canon became my first camera. It was simple, nothing fancy at all, nothing automatic, fully manual.
He taught me that I don’t need fancy equipment, but a good 50mm lens is nice. I still shoot on manual mostly with a 50mm. I’m a photographic minimalist, makes it easier to carry while I’m walking down the streets.
I don’t know how many family photos he took. Lots. We were made to line up, sit a certain way, one sister here one sister there, maybe arrange us by age. It was pretty normal, for us anyway. Slideshows were a common source of entertainment. Even my sister and I would create slideshow stories with our friends in high school. Now I love those photographs. I don’t think we ever really minded taking them. They are the documents of our childhood.
I used to sit with my Grandfather before he passed and go through all his photo albums, it was the one thing he could talk about for hours. He’d tell me the stories behind every photograph, who was who and where they lived and all the little things. Grandma was always missed, she would know the name of that hotel they stayed at, she would have remembered that neighbors dogs name. When papa passed a slideshow was created for that too, dad went through all the albums, and there are many. A lovely slideshow was made from Papa’s childhood all the way up to his passing, an entire lifetime in photographs.
He taught me how important it is to document your life, not only for you, but for those yet to come.
Dad always encourages me to go after what I was passionate about. He is always quick to tell me he’s proud of me. If he reads an interesting article in his daily read of the Wall Street Journal, he will neatly clip it out with scissors, write a note on a small yellow post-it and mail it to me.
I love you so much dad. Thanks for all the lessons. Happy Fathers Day. I will always feel very lucky to be your daughter, and I am proud to call you my dad.
- Lisa Warninger
In many ways, Kat McMillan is the archetypal mother. Caring. Gentle. Patient. A Good Listener. A Masterful Leader. And Cool Under Pressure. When we met, she was flitting about, acting the part of gracious hostess at the first NorthernGrade, the once yearly men’s market in her adopted hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota. She took care to say “hello” to me, and to see to it that I was happy and settled, and enjoying myself. Her care and attention was really wonderful. I watched as she talked and enjoyed, listening to virtually everyone in attendance. She made her way around the room with such grace and ease, laughing, smiling, having a really great time. It’s a simple thing, really, but it’s what I like most about Kat. She works hard, she enjoys what she’s built with her husband Mac — this great accessories company called Pierrepont Hicks — and she finds time to be a great mom in the process.
Kat, whenever you release the PH Conspiracy Tie, sign me up for the first one off the lot, and thank your father for turning off the voices in my head as well.
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Conspiracy Ties
By Katherine McMillan
I remember as a teenager, peeking into my father’s closet and finding an accordion of neatly folded, wooly, soft, muted earth-tone sweaters… mostly long-sleeve v-necks, from Brooks Brothers. I can still see the smile on my face looking back at me in the mirror, as I saw the success with which said sweaters complemented my rolled up jeans, Reebok Velcro white high-tops and giant squishy socks (baggy was “in” for my 9th grader fashion set). Funny how those same sweaters still have the same effect on me when I slip one on now at age 36 – warmth and coziness – reminding me of Dad – and the comforts of home.
His style is classic New York City. As an attorney in Manhattan for 25 years plus, his commute from Brooklyn Heights is one stop from Clark Street to Wall Street on the 7th Avenue line. It takes 3 minutes. He favors a blue oxford, button-down collar with gun metal suit each day, save for hot summer ones. Then his inner Fashionista comes out and he switches to classic seersucker with a floral tie. He is always at his most comfortable in his Orvis Khakis and pink oxford from Brooks (again).
In our early days of dating, Mac took me to Italy. On an afternoon stroll through Rome, I found myself utterly drawn to a silk tie – a salmon and white repp stripe perched in the window of a teeny Italian shop. Dad wears it still. I love this image of him at my wedding. If you look closer you can see the hand-painted Rainbow Trout and fly-fishing flies. His best friend’s wife did it for kicks.
I learned to fly fish and ride a bike from my father. He loves Border Collies, Barbours and Saabs (me too). He has a pile of books by his bed a mile high. I don’t think I know someone smarter than he, and I am not just saying this. He analyzes things far too deeply (me too), and has a tendency to snore whilst sleeping flat on his back (unfortunately me too, again).
I will always remember the first time he took me to see the opera La Boheme at The Met. When Mimi gasped her last breath, the audience so quiet it was palpable, my eyes welled up with tears, I turned to him, to see his cheeks also covered in tears. And when Kate Middleton got out of her car a few weeks ago to marry Prince William, I got a text at 5am that said: “You were more beautiful.” Tears, again.
Yup, we’re a couple of saps. He teases me about crying at movies, but he does too. His toast at my wedding to Mac had our guests honking in their napkins… something about his quiet tone draws attention when he speaks. He is deliberate and thoughtful and I strive to be so myself. He never fills a silence with meaningless talk.
But instead of going on and on about that stuff, I thought I would write down a classic story for your reading pleasure.
Dad came to New York in 1970 from Norfolk, Virginia, for a job as Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. This was basically a crazy time in the 1970s in New York. He worked with the NYPD closely, especially cases involving drug trafficking along the West Side Highway. I love hearing about the characters he dealt with and the exciting cases on which he got to work. He was in the thick of it in New York City as a young lawyer, and I love to hear his stories.
Here is one:
Each newbie in the U.S. Attorney’s office had to serve their time in the front, taking inquiries from the general public. So once a week, he would sit at the front desk, and people would come in with general questions or complaints about the government.
One afternoon, a sort of kooky Christopher Lloyd type came wandering in, and started going on about how “the government was listening” in his brain… how he knew there was a government conspiracy happening, and how he thought “Big Brother” was watching him at all times. Conspiracy Man went on for about an hour, with my dad listening in silence, until finally he said to my father: “I WANT YOU TO TURN OFF THE TRANSISTORS IN MY HEAD!”
Dad thought, paused a beat, picked up his phone and said quietly into the handset (to no one): “Turn off Mr. Smithers”.
Conspiracy Man threw his arms up with relief and exclaimed: “THANK YOU!” I am guessing he walked out a new man.
My dad taught me to laugh at life, but through this anecdote, he taught me something equally as important: EMPATHY.
The Shiny Squirrel, Jessica Goldfond, asked me to contribute a few Things I Love a year ago. I forgot to include The Shiny Squirrel. It is a constant source of inspiration. Turn to it, if you haven’t to stay tuned into Goldfond’s insightful look at the world of fashion and interior design. She’s an inspiration to me. May she be one to you.
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I never really knew my father. He passed away when I was 5 years old, but from what I hear we are very similar. We are both strong, extroverted people who have the ability to talk to anyone about anything. I can only really gather his personality through stories, our collection of home movies and the articles he left behind — mainly the fantastic library of books that encompasses my mothers’ basement. He loved reading biographies, nice cigars, and playing street basketball every weekend.
Although his influence was never direct, his absence has definitely shaped who I am today. He has taught me that life is very fragile and that you should enjoy every moment that you have both in what you do and the people you surround yourself with.
- Jessica Goldfond
I walked into Catbird and was thrilled by Rony Vardi’s abilities as a buyer. Smart buyers, those who can calculate in the midst of a hectic market what will look right, mixed with all the other stuff going on in their space, are some of the most enjoyable people I have met. Rony Vardi is a smart shopkeeper. I’m sure it pays to have a mathematician as a father.
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For years – decades really – I had no idea what I wanted to do when I grew up. It was a cause of great anxiety for me personally and a huge source of strife between me and my dad. My father was a mathematician. As a child when I asked him what he did for a living, he would say, “I think of problems and then try to solve them. I have the best job in the world.”
Every so often, my sister and I would go with him to work at Bell Labs where we would be baffled by its geniuses walking the halls backwards while reading, mastering the art of juggling or wearing gigantic down coats and mittens in August. No one ever seemed to be doing anything but hanging out having a grand old time. My dad “worked” when and where he wanted (mostly at home until all hours of the night) and wore whatever he wanted. He never owned a suit.
We were so steeped in his rare lifestyle that without my knowing, he set a standard that made the years I was adrift more painful, but the satisfaction of finally discovering my calling so much more joyous in that, not only had I fulfilled my own desires, but I knew that I had fulfilled my dad’s fondest wishes for my life.
My father died, suddenly, 6 years ago. Above all other things, I wish he could have seen the results of that lesson he taught me simply by filling his life with work he loved.
So, thanks for the bewildering trips to Bell Labs, Dad – they paid off. And those cafeteria BLTs were the best.
I laughed out loud, reading the preface to her entry, so without requesting permission, I included it here. Emerson, I hope not to offend. You are too funny!
I think it was Emerson or our mutual friend Sara who first reached out, requesting “Plaidy Status” on APO. I used to feature a great woman every week, deeming her “Plaidy of the Week,” and one day, I may reinstate the Plaidies. In which case, Emerson, you’ll be my first Plaidy. When first I learned of her, she was making cloth flower accessories. I shared them with the girl I was dating at the time, who then became Emerson’s biggest fan and quite possibly her best client. Only a few years later, and from the looks of things, Emerson has built a tiny empire. A Tiny, New English Empire.
I’m thrilled she agreed to participate in this little project, as I knew she’d have something fun to add. The real question is, what’s all this about Clint Eastwood?
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This is the question I received: What have you borrowed from your father, tangible and intangible?
Well sweet mother, Max. It looks like I wrote quite the novella here. I’m sorry about that. This has been a pleasure to do! I liked it.
kindest regards, e.
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Here’s some things I’ve borrowed from my dad.
I like this assignment! because I love thinking about and talking about my dad. He is one of my greatest inspirations.
Enjoying Life in the Now
This dad is always in the moment. He notices his environment everywhere he goes. He’s not preoccupied by the mind. You know what I mean? The mind is so incessant with thoughts sometimes, one can miss the view, but my dad’s a person of study to me because he’s always taking in the view, noticing the details, appreciating what is going on.
Love of Words
When I was 10 years old, my dad introduced me to poetry and read me all kinds of great poetry. That really got me fired up about words.
Following Interests with a Passion
My dad has played classical and flamenco guitar since he was a teenager, and he continues to hone his skill and stretch his repertoire. He never stopped at a point and said, “Well, I am good enough now.” He continues to grow as an artist. Occasionally, he’ll come over for lunch with his dog, Bob, and give a concert like you would not believe. If you are not familiar with flamenco guitar music, check it out sometime. You’ll see what I mean. It’s astounding what one man with a guitar can sound like.
Let People Be Who They Are
When I was a teenager he would help me type my papers at 2am with one eye open and a tiny glass of wine because — let’s face it — if it wasn’t about clothes, poems or painting, it was shoved in the bottom of my bag and gladly forgotten till the night before the thing was due. He didn’t try to force me into another shape, he focused on the positive — god love him — and encouraged my interests. He bought me my dress form, a sewing machine, the glue guns. And when we couldn’t find a hat form he chain sawed me one out of a tree stump. And then sanded it with a sander. Now that is something special is it not?
Love of Clint Eastwood
Don’t make me start on this topic. It will never end. He gave me a love of those movies and I’ve never looked back.
I love my dad. Thank you for inviting me to take part in this assignment!
- Emerson Fry
In college, I would force her to read every word I wrote, be it a ten-minute play for an Econ class or a ninety page screenplay about high school. Yes, I wrote a play for an Economics paper. It was my only A in that class. I always envied her ability to write about real life in a way that was both heartfelt and incredibly entertaining. Many of her stories still sit as fresh in my mind as they did when she’d share them the night before turning them into professors. Jessica and I shared many late night chats which I still reflect on as some of the most insightful of my young adult years. She will always be more attuned to reality than me. My neighbor in the dorm during our freshman year, she was my closest friend when we graduated. And, whether it’s a short personal essay or an e-mail about her kids, she’s still a fine writer. I’m glad she’s begun to place pen to paper again, eight years, four cities, a husband, and two kids later. Here she talks about her dad, one of the most laid back guys I’ve met. Happy Fathers Day to her dad, her husband, and all the dads in her family.
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I’m late in sending this, and I feel guilty about it (I’ve been a non-practicing Catholic for SO long, yet I still manage to feel guilty about everything). When asked to contribute to the series, I was honored and excited, and then, suddenly, blank. It had been a long time since I had written anything that wasn’t solely for myself. And the more I thought about what to write, the more lost I became.
When I thought this might have to relate to fashion in some way, all I could picture were the tapered Levis and tucked in golf shirt. Usually with no belt. And white tennis shoes. A uniform of sorts for the suburban dad. I thought about my dad’s love of sports and specifically the Cubs. How he passed that onto me. How Wrigley Field is one of my favorite places in the entire world. How my favorite number is 17 because I grew up worshiping Mark Grace. About how he taught me to golf in high school. How I took that love of golf through high school and college and to today. Maybe I could write about his balance. His willingness to listen. How he never reacts emotionally to situations. When I was sixteen, and at my wits’ end with my mom, my dad would come home, plop down his brief case, loosen his tie and listen to me complain. Pretty much every day. I mean, he always sided with my mom (I realize now as a parent how critical it is to always side with your spouse), but just the fact that he sat down and listened made me feel respected. I’ve tried to remember that in life. Sometimes the greatest thing you can do for someone is just listen.
But what I really needed to say hit me this morning. I was sitting on the couch, nursing one daughter and watching my other daughter bury herself in stuffed animals. I thought about the time I spend with my girls. The hours and hours each day and night I share with them. And then I pictured them older. Away from me, away from home. And suddenly, sadly, I knew what the problem was. I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know my dad anymore. At least, not really. I left home at seventeen. Went away to college, moved from one state to the next before winding up in Texas. It’s been over ten years since I lived with or even near my parents for any duration of time. Maybe it’s because we’re both busy. Maybe it’s just a product of proximity. Maybe it’s just our personalities. But I don’t feel all that connected to home anymore.
And so we go through the motions of asking about work, the grandkids, the weather, our weekend plans. I enjoy our conversations. We catch up. But I don’t know what makes him tick. I don’t know what makes him happy or frustrates him or makes him get up and go to work everyday. Or how he felt about turning 50. Or how he really feels about his only daughter and only grandkids living so far away.
So this Fathers Day and in the upcoming days, months, years, I plan on changing that. I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I don’t know if it will easy but I do know I owe to my myself and him and my kids. It’s exciting. I plan on getting to know my dad again.
- Jessica Sliman
