What, This Doesn't Go?

What, This Doesn’t Go?

Sitting in the room waiting for Dad’s infusion to be over for the day, the minutes dragged on and Mom looked at her watch, mindlessly rubbing her fingers over the crystal. It had been a gift from Dad for their fiftieth wedding anniversary, given to her at our first annual Rich Family Marco Island vacation.
It was 1996 and Mom and Dad’s fiftieth wedding anniversary was coming up. Harvey, Marcy and I were trying to decide what to do for them that would be appropriately celebratory. Should we make a party? Buy them a special gift? Send them on vacation? Alby answered our questions before we could ask them ourselves. Dad and Mom wanted to go away on vacation, with all their children and grandchildren, and the caveat was that Dad insisted upon paying for the whole thing.
Wait. It was THEIR anniversary and they were taking US away? We were raised never to argue with our parents so we dutifully HAD to oblige and go on an all-expenses paid vacation. Tough job but someone had to do it.
We went to Marco Island, Florida, where we surprised Mom and Dad with an entire wedding ceremony and reception. We found a Rabbi to lead the service during which they renewed their vows and threw a catered party afterward for the fifteen of us. At the close of the trip Dad made a proclamation.
“When you’re my age, you’ll understand what it means to be able to vacation with your children and grandchildren, have everyone together in one place enjoying themselves and relaxing. I know you all had a great time, but I assure you that Mom and I had a better time. Therefore, we’ve decided that every year for as long as I’m alive we’re going to make this same trip. Same time of year, same place, all of us together. It’s on me. What do you say?”
We were all thrilled beyond measure and we hadn’t even boarded the plane to go home when we were planning the following year’s trip! Year after year we went, and every year our “group” expanded. Soon it would include Mom and Dad’s nieces and nephews and my father’s brother, all of whom are from different places in the country. It became The Rich Family Reunion and we even had polo shirts made with our family name embroidered on the front.
Alby donned the shirt, the proud patriarch of his family. But there was one outfit he wore there that was, in all honesty, a sight to behold. Dad had fair skin and even though he loved bathing in the sun, he could handle it less and less; he could get a burn by sitting under a five-watt bulb so the Marco Island sun became dangerous and he needed to have his body covered.
Harvey bought Dad a sun suit, similar in looks to a wet suit but with added sun protection in the fibers. It was one-piece, black with a sporty blue stripe up the side and a zipper down the front. Alone it was fine. It’s how Dad wore it that presented the optical problem.
Alby had a pot belly that rested atop incredibly skinny legs and the tight-fitting suit accentuated his Adonis-like physique. With it he wore white socks with tan rubber sandals and a blue baseball cap bought for him by his nephew Mark, with the Hebrew word “CHAI” (translation: life) emblazoned on the front. A lovely smearing of zinc oxide was spread across his face and he had his grey swimming goggles dangling from their rubber string around his neck. He carried his poolside reading glasses and other personal belongings in a brown vinyl athletic bag that he’d gotten at a golf tournament, a bright red luggage tag dangling from the zipper. He was a virtual kaleidoscope of colors that didn’t go together on an outfit that would make Karl Lagerfeld vomit.
We were all sitting around the pool when Alby appeared. Strangers looked up from their books and magazines, dumbstruck by the sight before them. We could hear chuckles and saw fingers pointing and it was all we could do not to join in.
“Oh my God,” Mom said as she put her hand over her eyes. “I told him not to do this.”
Dad walked over to our circle of lounge chairs and put his bag down. “Your mother said I’d embarrass you if I came down here dressed like this. You’re not embarrassed, are you?”
“Embarrassed? Of course not,” I lied.
“Not at all,” Marcy lied.
“No way,” Harvey lied.
“You look fine, Pop Pop,” the grandchildren lied.
“Not a problem,” our husbands, wives and cousins lied.
“I love you all,” Dad said, breaking out into a huge grin. “You’re shitty liars but I appreciate the thought. And you know what? Even God has to laugh sometimes. I couldn’t care less how I look. I’m an old man and I’ve earned the right to look ridiculous.” He looked ridiculous, indeed, but he was all Alby. He was his own man and taught his family the importance of being real and true to our own selves. Truth be told, he taught us something that we never, ever could have learned anywhere else. We learned that none of us, ever, would be caught dead wearing that outfit.