On My Parents Anniversary

It doesn't necessarily catch your attention when you enter the apartment. It rests above eye level, atop a half wall that sits at an angle, intended to keep someone coming in here from looking directly into the living room. Maybe, the next owner will decide this wall should no longer exist.

On one side it reads "Nussbaum Construction Co" On the back, on what looks like a small smoke stack, it says "Founded 1924.” A string attaches to the arm of the shovel, keeping it intact. 

Before my dad passed away in 1979, he became very concerned that this toy steam shovel was brought back to life. Painted, and repaired so that it looked much as it did when it was given to him at 6 years old.

My recollection is that my dad had a client who was in the business of detailing cars, or at least something of that nature. Lucca and Visconti were the names of the sisters who I would come to know in the years after my dad's death. It was their family's business. Located in Lodi, the town where my mom grew up.

Lodi, which has a mythical quality to me. My mom, the middle of 5 children. Living in a house where my imagination allowed me entrance into every room. Past that small green table that sat in the kitchen. The same table that later found residence in my home. The spot where my children drew pictures or played games.

Lodi, which serves as the fabric that holds our 5 families of cousins together.  Thanksgiving every year serving as a thank you note to those who came before .

Anyway, back to that steam shovel. My dad knew he was dying in 1977. I remember sitting in the living room of their house in Teaneck when I was told of his diagnosis. I think my dad may have been sitting at the piano in the room. The same piano where he played and I sang "Love and Marriage.” Over and over. Year after year.

My dad did not go away easily. When he finally went into the hospital for the last time, it was not by being removed from that family home, but by my mom picking him up at the office. This was what, this was who he was.

Sorry, about the steam shovel. Actually, the steam shovel is not the only item that resonates with me today as I look around our apartment. My mom's last decade of life was hard. Hard on us. Harder on her. Until she could manage it no longer, she would often come to our place for dinner. When she could no longer drive, I would be the chauffeur. When she could no longer walk without assistance, I would help her along the way. And then finally, even that was too much for her. And then the seat at the table remained empty.

I was never a toy person myself. More into sports from the first moment I can recall. My dad always there with me,  A steam shovel something I would never consider playing with. Not by myself, and not with him.

But there it sits. And there it will remain. For it was, in his eyes, something with a meaning  that bore little relation to the nuts and bolts that made up this tiny present.

Today would have been Mom and Dad's 77th anniversary.

They are with me in that toy, in that table, in my mind and in my heart every single day.

And it doesn't take a steam shovel to keep them there.