Page 63 - WhyAsInY

WHo are tHese PeoPle? (Part 2)
my father would almost invariably tell me the first of his three stories, the one about the geometry exam on which he scored 98. He was delighted and proudly came home to show the stellar results to his father. As my father would relate it, imitating his father’s not particu- larly celebrative reaction, the parental response was limited to an almost critical, “and what happened to the other two points?” And, as far as I know, this was not followed by a compliment, at least as my father told it. What, if anything, was being communicated by Dad, other than the fact that my grandfather, the Harry after whom I was apparently named, was a stickler for perfection? Did my father think his father wrong, or had he incorporated his father’s standards? I think that the former is more likely the correct interpretation, but the recital of the story was never followed up with a compliment in my case, either. It really didn’t matter. I knew that my father, who was never generous with compli- ments, loved me, was proud of me, and, as I discovered later, was a bit afraid of what he perceived regarding my abilities, some of which appar- ently caused my parents a good deal of difficulty. I also believe that my grandfather was probably joking.
The second story was decidedly different. It was fable-like in its poignancy and, to me, in its underlying message. I cannot recall whether it was about my grandparents, because it has the qualities of a story that was handed down in my father’s family, but I will repeat it as if they were the main players:
It seems that when my father was a little boy, his father came home one day and, with a self-congratulatory smile and a flourish, displayed a very rare and valuable bottle of cognac that he had purchased. Telling my grandmother of the cognac’s apparently wonderful quality, he care- fully placed the bottle in the rear of the liquor cabinet and, as I recall my father quoting him, proclaimed, “This we will save for a very important occasion.”
A year or two went by, and my father or one of my father’s siblings apparently had had a big academic success of some sort. A toast was in order and, when my grandmother suggested that the cognac be opened
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