Remembering My Father

I never had a really close relationship with my father. I don’t think he knew what to make of his growing daughters. I know that with his grandsons, he adored them as infants and small children. Once they got big enough to talk back to him, he began to lose interest.

I have two very special memories of things we used to do together. The first is going out to Lippman’s Jewish bakery on Sunday mornings to get our rye bread. Daddy loved rye bread with caraway seeds, and he taught me to love it too. I don’t think my sister came with us on these trips, or maybe she got to go by herself. Daddy and I would get into the car, and our route would take us up 15th Avenue N. E. and I suppose the bakery was actually located on Beacon Hill. Every time I drive up that street today, I am reminded of our special trip to the bakery.

What I remember most, is how wonderful it smelled there. The fragrance of the freshly baked bread was wonderful, and I could hardly wait to get home with it, so I could spread a slice with butter and gobble it down. It was wonderful as toast or for sandwiches, and remains my very favorite kind of bread today. Sometimes one of the ladies would give me something to sample. I had my first taste of bagels there. I still remember how moist and chewy they were. The woman told me that bagels were boiled first before they were baked.

Daddy loved baseball, and Mother never really enjoyed the game. He started taking me as his companion to the games. Our team was the Seattle Rainiers, and they played in the old Pacific Coast League. Their home ball park was Sick’s Seattle Stadium in Rainier Valley. My Dad owned a piece of business property out there. It had been his original dry cleaning shop, and now housed a tavern as well as a small cleaning shop. He always went out to collect the rent in person, and then we would go to the baseball game.

Oh, how I loved to go with him to the ball game! He always got us good seats, and he was very patient about explaining the game to me. When I got a little older, he showed me how to keep score. I knew the names of all the players, but my favorite was Jo Jo White. One day, I came back from the game and informed my mother that Jo Jo slid into base and skinned his knee, but he didn’t cry at all. My Dad thought that was the best story, and he used to tell it to everyone. I couldn’t understand why it was so funny.

Daddy would explain strategy to me. I wanted to know why they bunted the ball, when they almost always got put out, so he explained about moving the runner along. This was long before designated hitters, so we saw the pitchers bunting quite a bit. I asked why they sometimes used a pinch hitter, and he explained about a left-handed batter having a better chance against a right-handed pitcher. Once, when the opposing manager then made a pitching change, I complained that it wasn’t fair, and Daddy said, “No, Betty Jo, that’s just good baseball.”

When we couldn’t go out to the game, we would listen on the radio. Leo Lassen was the radio broadcaster, and he could really make the game interesting. Present day sportscasters can’t hold a candle to him, in my opinion.

Daddy grew up in Brooklyn, so as a boy he was a fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers. He loved to talk about old time baseball. A few year’s ago, I ran across a series of mysteries that revolved around the old time baseball teams. All the while I was reading them, I wished my Dad were still here to talk to me about them. I’m sure he would have loved to read them, as they took place during the time he was growing up and learning to love baseball himself.

All my sons loved to talk baseball with Grandpa. Even when his near memory began to fail him, he could still remember all about baseball. I will always be grateful to him for teaching me to love the game.