Time

I run two miles in 20 minutes from 5:45 to 6:05 am.  That's what I do, on a treadmill in front of the early morning news, so in my mind that's what I can do.

But earlier this month, I ran about four miles miles in 45 minutes, on a country road in the north hills of Wisconsin. It was an opportunity to spend time with colleagues and enjoy clear, brisk air and extraordinary autumn colors.

I was quickly back to my 20-minute run.  Now I know: it's not about what I can do, but about time and circumstance.  On a typical day, twenty minutes is all I'm giving up to running.

I thrive on schedules and like them full.  Holding to them matters to me.  My day goes by more quickly, I feel more accomplished, and I know what to expect.  With a clear view of my agenda and the strategic goals  underlying it, I also adjust more nimbly to changes and interruptions.

But a changing perception of time has crept into my experience.

When my father died on August 20, time changed.

First, there was that day, a Saturday.  Before the call I'd bought groceries and had my nails done, which took about two hours combined and felt like two hours--the passage of time was identifiable and quantifiable.  After the call, moments both merged and stood still; time collapsed and expanded.  All at once.  It seemed then chaotic and confusing and yet in crystalline relief, and it's how I recall it now.  However illogical this sounds, it holds logic for that day.

That time had changed first entered my consciousness that evening, when I reentered the room in which I'd received the call hours before.  I saw my shoes on the floor, my full glass of iced tea on the table, my book open on the sofa, border markers of the Dina who had been there earlier and been lifted out of the scene into another time.  After.  At first I could not fathom how those items had arrived where they lay.  Before seemed too distant for its artifacts to persist.

Sunday and Monday filled with activity, but not on any schedule I had devised.  That existed somewhere, in Before, but it no longer mattered in After.  Funeral arrangements, people arrangements, family, rabbi, funeral director, medical examiner, phone calls, phone calls, meetings, phone calls.  And the funeral.  The family ushered into a room where we see my father's body, and suddenly I shift from constant movement to a halt.  A breathtaking halt.  Until we are in the sanctuary, and the pace accelerates, people come, they greet us, the service proceeds, we speak with love of my father, we move on to the cemetery, we're ushered home, people arrive, so many who loved my father. And so many who love me make sure I have what I need.  It's all decided what the pace will be, that's clear to me, I just wasn't consulted and have no inside knowledge.  So I follow, adjust, feel thankful that others know and I don't have to.

And from there, a week of a nothing-that-is-not-nothing punctuated by evening visits from those mourning my father and comforting us. Nothing but home.  And yet time did not seem to slow. Reflection takes time. Mourning takes time. They may not be on the calendar or fit a schedule, but they occupy time, and the time given over to them possesses its own texture, density and color, as though physical.  Mourning and reflection do not simply take time, they give it also, provide a gift of knowing time in a new way.  Painful yet sweet.

And Now I live in Before and After.  Appointments, full schedules, productivity.  Reflection, appreciation, sadness.  Speeding up and slowing down, sometimes it seems in the same moment.  Slow not equaling drawn out.  I don't know for how long this will last.  I expect that Now will become more and more like Before, but it's not on a time line.  And I can work with that, just as sometimes I can slow down, look at the scenery, and run twice as far.

Remembrances of Dad: Bernard Wolfman, July 8, 1924 to August 20, 2011

Remarks at Dad's Funeral, August 22, 2011

When I google the term “Bernard Wolfman,” it’s not until I get past the 40th page of results that many of them no longer refer to my father.

Thirty-some years ago, when I was in high school, I sat in on one of my father’s classes.  I took a seat in the back row of the lecture hall.  The students around me glanced over several times until one asked, “Who are you?”  The reply “Professor Wolfman’s daughter” was greeted with momentary silence and then the question, “He has a daughter?”

Indeed, many knew my father for the breadth and force of his intellect and influence as a legal scholar.  But he did have a daughter.  And four sons, ten grandchildren, a sister, niece, nephews, parents… and the privilege and joy of having been married to two women whom he deeply loved.   For all of these people, and the further extended family and his dear friends, his intellect made him all the more interesting and exciting to be around, but it did not define him. It is my father’s love, warmth and generosity for which we have always appreciated him and will remember him.

I should add that we’re not likely to forget his stubbornness either.  Then again, most of us share that trait so we’ll have constant reminders.

Even Dad’s stubbornness was in the service of his love for us.  Shortly after we moved to Cambridge, the window air conditioner in my bedroom broke and he arranged for a technician to come to the house to repair it.  While he was at work I hosted the service call.  I don’t recall the specifics, but the technician in some way cheated us.  My father was furious, not at me but at the technician for seizing on the opportunity to take advantage of my youthful naiveté and gullibility.  The combination of his protective, paternal instinct, and his stubborn inability to let anything go, ended with me – scared witless – speaking in small claims court after he had thoroughly prepped and rehearsed me.

My father was an extremely difficult person for whom to select gifts, a trait he generously handed down to the other men in our family.  So I’d put great energy into coming up with ideas, sometimes even holding brainstorming sessions with my co-workers.  For one major birthday Brad and I gave him a trip to adult space camp, as he always was enamored with space exploration.  True to form, he rose to captain of his team in the simulated space flight, and he loved the experience save for the terrible food (space camp seems to serve the adult groups exactly what they supply to the child campers) and the ruination of his team’s excellent record with his crash landing at the end.  On another occasion, we gave him a very fine, vintage bottle of red wine. He liked it as he would any bottle of red, never realizing it was anything different, but at least the sommelier standing by during the celebration feast was mightily impressed.

Despite these attempts to somewhat lavishly overcome the difficulty of finding the right gift for my father, it was the simple letter that I sent him to mark Father’s Day 1999 that was most effective.  My father was not raised in an era that promoted the emotional side of men.  However, Dad managed to defy that.  My letter thanked him for being so emotionally available to me because – especially during my mother’s illness and in the four years between her death and Dad’s marriage to Toni – that made all the difference in my life.  I recall one night while my mother was hospitalized; I came down from my room, unable to sleep and feeling terribly sad.  He took me into his lap, as he sat in a chair in the family room of our house in Elkins Park, and not only held me while I cried but cried with me.  In response to my Father’s Day letter, he drafted to me a heartfelt note in return, one I have kept.  I believe that it was for him the best gift I ever gave.  My father didn’t need great things from us, just love.

Marrying Toni was a one of my father’s choices that made a tremendous difference for me.  Toni, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you have brought into my life as a friend and as a mentor. You have been far more than the term step-mother can encompass, and your love for Dad has extended to love for and generosity to the rest of us, which we deeply feel and appreciate.

It is hardly surprising that Dad would have loved someone so giving. He generously gave of his deep well of affection, never short on hugs and kisses. He held my hand when we’d take walks together no matter how old we got (except during my adolescence, when I found this mortifying).  I learned from Dad not only love for family, but also for friends.  He offered unbounded loyalty and connection to lifelong friends whose meaning in his life he would readily articulate.

My father loved his family, loved his friends and loved the law.  He also loved baseball – though here he showed less loyalty as he rather capriciously switched allegiance from the Phillies to the Red Sox, after moving to Cambridge, much to the dismay of his children. He was really looking forward to a Phillies / Red Sox World Series this year.  And he loved natural beauty, taking us for bike rides and picnics on the Schuylkill River in Philly, later for walks in the extraordinary arboretum of Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, and on outings to garden centers and nurseries.  Technology fascinated him and he became a computer user before I did, explaining to me DOS with complete awe and remarkable competency. He did this because he believed we should not simply do, we should understand.  To this end, my first driving lesson consisted not of driving but of learning how and why, behind the scenes of the automatic gears, they were shifting on my behalf.

Dad also had an extraordinary appreciation for and knowledge of language.  He was facile at foreign language, something I failed to inherit, but it was his interest in the English language over which we often bonded.  When I was in high school, after he’d acquired an edition of the OED that required a magnifying glass to read, he and I would pore over it together looking up words, and then the words from which they derived, and on and on.  Whenever I’ve been unsure of a grammatical choice, and could not arrive at a clear decision through my reference sources, I’d simply call my father.  He’d respond immediately and always accurately.  Then I’d receive a series of follow-up calls or emails with further explanation as he thought more about reasons for and nuances to the usage he’d recommended.

I will miss Dad’s calls and emails, his knowledge, his appreciation of nature, his joy for language, his enthusiasm for baseball (albeit for the wrong team), and even his stubbornness.  I will miss his love.