My dad inspired several of my stories. He loved this essay so much that he
asked me to read it at his funeral, which I did, last Saturday. Art was
one-of-a-kind and if you were lucky enough to know him, or own one of his
masterpieces, then you were lucky indeed.
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CRAZY
HOBBIES
You think your childhood
was normal, even now, when you should
know better. The truth is that each family enjoys its own special brand of
kookiness, including yours. Of course, I’m not talking about the people who end
up on reality TV buried under all the stuff they couldn’t bear to part with.
I’m talking about people who keep the “fun” in dysfunctional, the ones whose
little idiosyncrasies provide great stories at Thanksgiving.
In our family, we had a
fondness for hobbies. Actually, we didn’t but my dad did. And it was
much more than a fondness, it was more like an all-consuming mind-boggling
eye-popping breathtaking overwhelming single-minded focus. But even with all
that, he didn’t forget about his children, no sir. We were all pulled into the
vortex with him…
The first thing I
remember is crouching down on our living room floor, immersed in a sea of
coins, looking for rare pennies. In the beginning, my sisters and I had a great
time rolling around in those thousands of pennies, throwing them at each other and
cascading them from high in the air. But when our dad asked us to sift through
them and separate them into groups according to their imprint dates, the fun
was over. Now, before you start wondering if child services or the Labor
Department had to get involved, let me just say-it wasn’t like that. Far from
running his own sweat shop, my dad wanted us to love coin-collecting. He gave each of us a penny collection book
with empty slots for every year, including the rare pennies, and then tried to
make a game out of it. And it might have worked too, if only we could have
paced ourselves, but our dad only has one speed and that’s full-speed ahead.
From pennies, he went on
to nickels, dimes, quarters and JFK half-dollars. He started storing bags of
coins in our closets for when we “had time to look through them” (they may
still be there). He dragged us to coin shows and coin stores all over town. He
bought necklaces made from rare coins and gave them to my mother for special
occasions. She would smile and thank him and then put them away. She may have
even worn them to humor him because, even though we were all tired of
coin-collecting, nobody wanted to squelch my dad’s enthusiasm. His quest for
rare coins made him so happy. That is, until he discovered stamp-collecting.
Rather than bore you
with the details, let’s just say it was very much like coin-collecting only a
lot easier to lug around. This time, he gave each of us a beginner’s book for
collecting stamps and we soon graduated to having our own individual country.
For some reason, I chose the Vatican, although I can’t imagine why. Their
stamps weren’t pretty, just a bunch of popes. And it’s not even my religion…go
figure.
While I don’t remember
the rest of the hobbies in chronological order, I do know that they went from
small to large, from being contained in our basement to taking over our house
and yard. There was jewelry-making, which was kind of fun for us because we
didn’t have to participate, and because we could always create a last-minute,
unique birthday gift for a friend from the tons of beads, stones and materials
my dad kept on hand. Then there was the “miniature” phase during which my dad
furnished an entire miniature Victorian mansion from top to bottom (it was much
nicer than our house), as well as assembled a miniature greenhouse with real
plants in tiny pots. Ironically, it was the miniature greenhouse that led to my
dad’s most expansive, most labor-intensive and most annoying hobby of all: cactus.
I can almost hear them
groaning as they read this, our friends and family who were dragged into the
dangerous and dirty world of cactus. I don’t mean to make it sound exciting, as
if it involved espionage or working for the mob; it was literally dangerous and dirty.
After purchasing one
small cactus garden at K-Mart, my dad went on to fill the entire back yard with
every kind of cactus and succulent known to man, building two greenhouses to
house them all. To this day, I cannot explain it. They were the ugliest plants
I ever saw, even when they bloomed. And they were everywhere: every windowsill, every table and every empty
spot in the yard. We could have lived with all of that (and, in fact, we did),
if it hadn’t been for the dreaded… plant
shows
Several times a year,
plant enthusiasts gather at weekend plant shows, ostensibly to sell their wares
but, in reality, to schmooze & steal each other’s ideas. Not only was
it unbearably hot (the shows were outside,
in Florida), but each show necessitated renting a truck and recruiting many
helpers to gingerly pack up dozens of blood-thirsty cacti, knowing full well
they would be packing them up again at the end of the show. This torture went
on for years and only ended because my mother insisted they sell the house and
move to a condo. I only hope the new owners never walked barefoot in the
backyard…
Which brings me to the
present and the wacky world of metal chickens. Although he was sad about razing
his greenhouses, my dad quickly recovered and started taking art lessons twice
a week. After painting dozens of oil and acrylic landscapes, still life
pictures, portraits and abstracts, he switched from painting canvas to painting
metal art. Often using whimsical colors,
he has painted hundreds of pieces including animals, insects, statutes of
people, and some pieces that are so weird they defy description. My dad is
quite prolific and generously donates many pieces to my favorite non-profit for
their raffles. As a result, everyone I know owns a piece of Art (also my dad’s
name).
Now I know that my
childhood wasn’t typical, but, really, whose is? Although I often felt like the
Karate Kid did when Mr. Miyagi gave him seemingly pointless chores, maybe I too
learned something valuable. And while I
don’t have any crazy hobbies, I am enthusiastic about each task I undertake and
give it all I’ve got. And for that, I guess I should say: “Thanks Dad!”
***This an excerpt from my book, "Quirky Essays for Quirky People"
