Touched by Fire
I have come to realize that this absent man, this phantom who might never have taken form except for my tenacious curiosity, contributed a great deal to the person that I am.
When I had children, I decided at a young age, I would do everything right and they would be accountants or attorneys. They would be solid, respectable folk who did not waste their time chasing rainbows or building castles in the air. My well-nurtured children would grow up to be steady and even-tempered, unlike the people in my family — all of whom were prone to flights of ecstasy or irritability and bouts of bone-crushing despair.
Instead, I raised artists and architects. One is a financial analyst, but Michael arrived at that career along a convoluted path involving a period when he dyed his beautiful wheat-colored hair black, complemented by black fingernails and a black wardrobe. He was only 13. When I took Michael to the pediatrician, kindly Dr. Mayer eyed him with concern and announced, “I think he’s depressed.” A portly child psychologist concurred, adding that my boy was very creative. The bad times were part of that complicated package, he announced.
This is an awkward way of segueing into the story of my Grandfather Gordon, my mother’s father. On Daddy’s side I had an…
