The first embarrassing thing I can remember about my father is his name, Harry Meinke. Peter Meinke is tough enough, but when I was young, the kids in our Flatbush neighborhood naturally used to point at me (and him, if they were far enough away), yelling, HAIRY MONKEY HAIRY MONKEY! I had to either ignore them like a coward or throw my bespectacled small frame in their general direction, hoping not to break my glasses, which would bring a strong scolding from the afore-named head of the household. Breaking my glasses was an expensive youthful habit of mine, and I didn't need anyone's help to do it.
My dad (1906-1996) was a stocky, dapper man with wistful eyes who, even as he gained far too much weight, vibrated with strength and good humor. He was outgoing and intelligent, but from the 1960s on we seldom spoke seriously on any subject. A successful salesman of metal parts, he was a staunch Republican, who referred to FDR as "that man;" and when I — in grad school at the University of Michigan — began turning leftward from the time of the Nixon-Kennedy debates, we couldn't seem to agree on anything. Vietnam, civil rights, gun control, abortion, music, facial hair (I sported a Trotskyesque goatee at the time): almost any topic could spark an argument.
A high school graduate, he liked poems like "Casey at the Bat" (so did I), and felt that mine were willfully obscure. So for some time our get-togethers were like heated scenes out of Joyce's Dubliners — but as he grew older and frailer (diabetes, broken hip: the usual litany), I began writing poems with warm, if conflicted, memories of earlier times, including this one:
The only thing I can remember my father teaching me
is how to carry an ice tray without spilling:
Keep your eye on the front compartment he'd say you'll see
it works: not a blesséd drop lost Fortunately
that's a practical lesson I've been more than willing
to follow every day of my life so I think of him fondly
as I pad back&forth making ice for our martini
ritual Mom shrilled from her pulpit Those are killing
you you know and she was dead-on right but he
didn't care nor do we an inherited suicidal tendency
like a toothpick in the blood his stoic shrug drilling
into us the appeal of containing your own catastrophe
Peter he'd smile holding out his glass remember Gethsemane
was an olive grove and I'd think of the disciples milling
about and Jesus waiting for Judas beside an olive tree
and despite my name as I fixed him his drink with its three
olives I wondered which one was me in the kitchen swilling
gin with my sick old man waiting for him to say as I picked up the tray
Keep your eye on the front compartment: You'll see
The best time we ever had together was when I moved in with him after I got out of the Army in 1957. He and Mom were divorced; I was getting married later in the year. My dad was an enthusiastic participant in the then-normal three-martini lunch, and much of our time together involved unhealthy amounts of alcohol — but at the time, it was fun, and I'm grateful to him for passing on his virtual immunity to hangovers. Pre- or post-martinis, he was an upbeat guy, and I know he was proud about my graduating from college, serving in the Army and marrying Jeanne.
The above poem — shaped like a villanelle, with 19 lines and only two rhymes — is true in spirit and true about the ice tray. In real life he mightn't have made such a religious reference: but I was looking for a rhyme for "martini," and I like to imagine him pontificating "Gethsemane" (pronounced Geth-sem-anee): He was a funny guy.
And, with nice irony, our meetings during his last years were once again smoothed over by martinis. His doctor had ordered him not to drink anymore; his third wife, Betty, strictly upheld this rule, with a single exception. He was allowed one martini when I'd visit him, so the two or three times a year we got up north were highly anticipated, with lots of rueful jokes. My father liked to live life in the celebratory mode.
After the poem was published, I sent it to him, but he never said a word about it.
Peter Meinke's latest book is Unheard Music, a collection of stories. The poem, "Ice," is included in his collection Scars (1996).
This article appears in Jun 11-17, 2008.