My father grew up above a grocery his parents owned in Schenectady, NY. A sign from Romanoff’s Quality Food Store hangs in my home today.
My grandmother came to the U.S. from Belarus; she was smuggled out of Slutsk, or so we’ve heard, in a hay wagon. My grandfather came from Poland; he died when my father was only 17.
That tragedy—and the economic insecurity that followed—shaped Dad for the rest of his life. He never understood why I would pursue a career that seemed so uncertain, dependent on the whims of voters.
I told my father once that I wanted to save the world. He said, “Some people don’t want to be saved.”
We’ve never seen eye-to-eye on politics. But as my father struggles now, after a series of falls and strokes, those arguments seem trivial.
I love my dad—I just hope he can understand me when I tell him. I wish you and your family a very happy Father’s Day.