my man godfrey, the man I both treasured and adored:
MY FAVORITE LINE IN LITERATURE WAS WRITTEN BY...
MY FAVORITE LINE IN LITERATURE WAS WRITTEN BY...
RAFAEL SABATINI IN A BOOK CALLED SCARAMOUCHE: "He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad," was the opening line; and my Father insisted that I memorize this rather simple sentence when I was 12 years-old. Earlier in the day, he had made me trudge through the snow to the neighborhood library and back to our house in order for me to obtain the book, remove my galoshes and soaking-wet coat, go into my bedroom and memorize the opening line, return to the living room, where he had been waiting patiently on the sofa, in order that I recite the words to him; and when I came to the finish of my rather bland recital, he then informed me that if I lived by these words, always remembered them, my life would be good, in that the world was indeed mad and laughter would be my only salvation for the mayhem which lay ahead in a life I had yet to live. It would be a code, he added, by which I could not only live a rather good life but would give me the pleasure of chuckling at both myself and others for all of the mortal sins and minor misdemeanors that I would see all of mankind commit along the way.
At the time, of course, I thought he had gone utterly mad.
They turned out to be words of enduring wisdom.
His name was Godfrey John Julius Albert Daugs.
And I had the rare pleasure of being his Son.
Everything about Godfrey John Julius Albert Daugs amazed me: his smile, his elegant manner, the features of his face, even the powerful singing voice which he produced with ease and joy at the drop-of-a-hat, and the fact that even after a hard day's work, he always came home looking clean and freshly scrubbed. My Dad attended every one of my baseball games as I grew from a young boy into early manhood, called me Rabbi from the stands, in spite of the fact that we did not happen to be Jewish, and that word alone would always make me laugh. His style was urban and and I was proud to be at his side. I loved that part of him. Loved, too, that he seemed to be proud of me, as well. He was a man of wit, wisdom, and courage: all combined to make me admire him even more; but just about the best thing of all things about him was, of course, was the sound of his own infectious laugther.
Part of his appeal was based on another fact: He was that rare sort of human being whom everyone seemed to adore, men and women alike, a genuinely gentle man who gave the impression of loving everyone he had ever met. He also told some of the greatest stories I have ever heard. He cared about words, and it showed in the way he talked. I can still hear his voice still coming to me across the decades, filled with love and energy, insistent that the world must be challenged and all life embraced. He never hesitated. He lifted no phrases out of cheap movies, the ones where other fathers on the big-screen gave advice to their almost-perfect children on how to a life. The quality of of his words were of the tough-minded decency of a man with a code of honor. He challenged me to be a good father and trustworthy man as I grew older; not to impose my will, directly or indirectly, upon other people; to never point a finger of suspicion at anyone else, because one day that finger could be pointed my way; and insisted that I not be blind to the needs of others - but also direct my attention to common interests and to the means by which those needs could be resolved. But the simplest words, the ones I treasured the most, were: I love you, Dick.
Years later, after Nixon, Ford, and Carter had given way to Reagan, and George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton and George W. Bush: after the horrors of of Cambodia and Vietnam and AIDS had had become the new plague - after all had changed from the year of 1975, when my Father had died at the age of 72, I was walking alone on a pre-dawn morning along the shores of Georgica Beach out in East Hampton. People walked by, some gave me a nod, but nobody stopped to converse, it was too early in the day for that.
It was the 18th day of February in 1995.
The same exact day upon which my father had been born back in 1903.
I was alone in the emptiness of cross-cutting memory of the 40 years he had now been absent from my life and the sadness I felt each-and-every day because of it. And because he had known the midnight as well as the high noon of life, because he understood the ordeal as well as the triumph of the human spirit, he had given me his strength to overcome the despair of his loss in my life. That thought in itself had brought a smile to my face.
It was in that brief smiling moment of memory that in the distance, I saw a plume of smoke coming from a small but elegant house. A stand of of tall trees stood on either side of the lane leading up to it, a burgundy-colored and freshly-polished Jaguar was parked in the circular driveway in the front of it. I came a bit closer and squinted. It was then that I was almost certain that I saw a man standing up there on the front porch, looking down at me in through pre-dawn darkness, tossing me a hale-and-hearty laugh. For a moment-or-so, I thought that I had seen the image of my Father and that he was tossing a laugh my way as: A gift of laughter...in honor of his birthday; and whether it was real or imagined, it brought the sound of laughter to my own lips, and was a most wonderous way to celebrate the birthday of a man that I both treasured and adored...
At the time, of course, I thought he had gone utterly mad.
They turned out to be words of enduring wisdom.
His name was Godfrey John Julius Albert Daugs.
And I had the rare pleasure of being his Son.
Everything about Godfrey John Julius Albert Daugs amazed me: his smile, his elegant manner, the features of his face, even the powerful singing voice which he produced with ease and joy at the drop-of-a-hat, and the fact that even after a hard day's work, he always came home looking clean and freshly scrubbed. My Dad attended every one of my baseball games as I grew from a young boy into early manhood, called me Rabbi from the stands, in spite of the fact that we did not happen to be Jewish, and that word alone would always make me laugh. His style was urban and and I was proud to be at his side. I loved that part of him. Loved, too, that he seemed to be proud of me, as well. He was a man of wit, wisdom, and courage: all combined to make me admire him even more; but just about the best thing of all things about him was, of course, was the sound of his own infectious laugther.
Part of his appeal was based on another fact: He was that rare sort of human being whom everyone seemed to adore, men and women alike, a genuinely gentle man who gave the impression of loving everyone he had ever met. He also told some of the greatest stories I have ever heard. He cared about words, and it showed in the way he talked. I can still hear his voice still coming to me across the decades, filled with love and energy, insistent that the world must be challenged and all life embraced. He never hesitated. He lifted no phrases out of cheap movies, the ones where other fathers on the big-screen gave advice to their almost-perfect children on how to a life. The quality of of his words were of the tough-minded decency of a man with a code of honor. He challenged me to be a good father and trustworthy man as I grew older; not to impose my will, directly or indirectly, upon other people; to never point a finger of suspicion at anyone else, because one day that finger could be pointed my way; and insisted that I not be blind to the needs of others - but also direct my attention to common interests and to the means by which those needs could be resolved. But the simplest words, the ones I treasured the most, were: I love you, Dick.
Years later, after Nixon, Ford, and Carter had given way to Reagan, and George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton and George W. Bush: after the horrors of of Cambodia and Vietnam and AIDS had had become the new plague - after all had changed from the year of 1975, when my Father had died at the age of 72, I was walking alone on a pre-dawn morning along the shores of Georgica Beach out in East Hampton. People walked by, some gave me a nod, but nobody stopped to converse, it was too early in the day for that.
It was the 18th day of February in 1995.
The same exact day upon which my father had been born back in 1903.
I was alone in the emptiness of cross-cutting memory of the 40 years he had now been absent from my life and the sadness I felt each-and-every day because of it. And because he had known the midnight as well as the high noon of life, because he understood the ordeal as well as the triumph of the human spirit, he had given me his strength to overcome the despair of his loss in my life. That thought in itself had brought a smile to my face.
It was in that brief smiling moment of memory that in the distance, I saw a plume of smoke coming from a small but elegant house. A stand of of tall trees stood on either side of the lane leading up to it, a burgundy-colored and freshly-polished Jaguar was parked in the circular driveway in the front of it. I came a bit closer and squinted. It was then that I was almost certain that I saw a man standing up there on the front porch, looking down at me in through pre-dawn darkness, tossing me a hale-and-hearty laugh. For a moment-or-so, I thought that I had seen the image of my Father and that he was tossing a laugh my way as: A gift of laughter...in honor of his birthday; and whether it was real or imagined, it brought the sound of laughter to my own lips, and was a most wonderous way to celebrate the birthday of a man that I both treasured and adored...
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