In the book, "Jewish Fathers - A Legacy of Love" by Paula Ethel Wolfson, we read:

"In Yiddish, the image of the Jewish father is synonymous with "mensch," a good person.  The word mensch is used by both Jews and non-Jews and has beome part of America's vocabulary.

The first mensch we meet in life is usually our father.

Hardworking.  Honest.  ("orntlekh" - the Yiddish is mine).  Kind.  ("frayndlekh"). Fair.  Reliable.  (farlozlekh").  Charitable. Funny.  (komish").  Reverent.  Mature. Honorable.  ("bekovedik").  Sturdy.  ("kreftik").  Learned.  ("lamdn").  Righteous. Modest.  Responsible.  The man in your temple who quietly gives to charity.  The coach of your kid's soccer team.  The nice guy you hope your sister will hook up with. A mensch." 

There are many fascinating father-child stories of celebrities and non-celebrities.

Jackie Mason ("Jackie, OY!  Jackie Mason from Birth to Rebirth"), said that in his family, he was a second-class "birger" (citizen), compared to his brothers.  He felt "narish" (stupid); he was the guy who was not going to amount to anything because he was not going to be a rabbi.  Mason had an image of a flounderer, who was uncertain about where to go and what to do with his life.  He writes,

"He thought of his dead father.  What would the learned rabbi think of the television appearances, the comedy album, and the nightclub dates?  What would be his opinion of the widespread acclaim and the adoration?  Jackie had always insisted that comedy was a hobby, a hiatus from his real work, a rabbi, to which he intended to return any minute.

His father would be appalled.

"My God" if he was alive, how would I hide this from him!"

It was a rare and unpleasant thought. Somehow, Jackie had managed to avoid thinking about what he was doing, in terms of his father and his father's opinion.

Yes, Jackie Mason's father considered him a "nishtik" (worthless) person.  However, his brothers came to see him wherever he played.  He writes, "...sometimes the sight of them there, was heartbreaking and touching, these orthodox Jewish men in their awkward felt hats and stone faces, sitting bolt upright in the dining room of Sardi's (looking as if they were afraid that they were about to be assaulted by a piece of nonkosher food)..."

David Kaplan ("Impact!  20 Short Stories with an immediate Message") tells another touching story:

"When I was young, my father took me out to teach me how to drive a stick shift. Somehow I couldn't get the hang of using a clutch.  After about a half-hour of futility, I said 'Dad, I just can't do it.  I'll just have to drive the automatic.'

My father knew exactly which button to push.  'All right, but you know Mom learned how to do it.'

Within five minutes, I was the best stick-shift driver in the city.'

Mara Sokolsky writes, "In Yiddish, there are two designations of the English verb "to walk."  If you walk from one place to another, that's gayen, or "to go."  But if you take a walk for the enjoyment of the walk itself, then it's called shpatzirn and the walk itself in a shpatzir."  And, so, our next tribute to dad is titled, "What a Difference a Walk Makes" by Bruce Northam.  (Source:  "Chicken Soup for the Soul" by Canfield, Hansen, and Unkovich.)

"My father and I had walked together a lot, but after he underwent both heart bypass and back surgery, we faced the possibility that his long-distance hiking days were over at seventy.  But miraculously, only one year after his setbacks, he was able to join me on a 180-mile coast-to-coast trek across Wales.

One late afternoon, while traversing a long, curving ridge, we came upon an elderly woman and her beagle hiking toward us. Teetering along on a walking stick, she wore a motoring cap and clutched a bunch of wildflowers.

I said hello, and after some discussions she told us that she was almost ninety. I studied her carefully and couldn't believe what great shape she was in.  Se seemed so fit and content.

"What's the secret to a long and happy life?" I asked.

She smiled and spoke softly, "Moments." There was a quiet pause before she carried on.  "Moments are all we get. A true walker understands this."

She bid us good-bye and continued on her way, her dog trotting a few steps in front. Just before she disappeared into the horizon, I looked back at her, plodding ahead with timeless poise and bearing, and sent a smile to my father.

She was right; that is all we get.

The final tribute to Dad is a poem by Dan Clark titled, "Practical Application." (Source: "Chicken Soup for the Soul")

He's teaching her arithmetic. He said it was his mission. He kissed her once, he kissed her twice and said, "Now that's addition."

And as he added smack by smack In silent satisfaction, She sweetly gave the kisses back and said, "Now that's subtraction."

Then he kissed her again, she kissed him, Without an explanation, And both smiled and said, "That's multiplication.

Then Dad appeared upon the scene and Made a quick decision. He kicked that kid three blocks away And said, "That's long division!"

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