Always There

Washington at Valley Forge, freezing cold but up spoke George, he said, “Bo doh de oh, bo doh de oh, doh.”

As I changed my infant son’s diaper, I’d sing this song to him. It had many lyrics, most of which didn’t make any sense at all. But I’d sing it through and then, when we were both clean and fresh, I’d hold him in my arms and I’d say, “I love you; I’ll take care of you; I’ll always be there when you need me.” This was our ritual, carried out a few times every day until he was old enough to recognize the song. He’s thirty two years old now and he can still sing it all the way through.



My daughter came along five years later and I tailored the ritual just a bit. Instead of George Washington, I sang all three verses of Union Maid.

There once was a union maid, who never was afraid, of goons and ginks and company finks and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid.

I’d always, of course, have to apologize to her before singing the last verse. You could look it up.

When we were both clean and fresh, I’d hold her in my arms and I’d say, “I love you; I’ll take care of you; I’ll always be there when you need me.” Sometimes my son would watch us with a knowing smile.

I’m not sure what a family legacy is, how it works or why it has such a hold on me, but I know such a legacy was passed down to me from my father. He had his faults to be sure, but what I remember most was that I could rely on him. He always did what he promised me he would do and was always where he told me he would be.

A couple of stories about baseball. My father didn’t understand baseball at all, growing up as he did in a remote village in the interior of Turkey. He would, however, take me to see the Cleveland Indians play on many warm summer afternoons and sit reading a book or grading papers, providing an anchor for me as I roamed the stadium.

In father and son baseball games, he was always assigned to right field with the hope that no one would hit a ball to him. On one occasion, unfortunately, a routine fly ball was sent his way and I could see him struggle to decide how to hold his hands to catch it. Finally, he gave up and stopped the ball dead against the ground with his foot, soccer style. Quit remarkable, really, and not something any of the rest of us could have done, but not very helpful in a baseball game. But that was my father, being there and doing what he could.

A sense of who I am has been passed down to me through the generations. My grandfather, who died in 1919 in Turkey, passed along a legacy of loyalty and commitment to my father and I learned a great deal at my father’s knee. I hope, a great many years from now, my son's daughter will be able to say of him, “He loved me; he took care of me; he was always there when I needed him.”