My father’s birthday was last month. As he’s been gone a while, the date usually slips by without my notice, but when I glanced at my calendar and realized it was his birthday, well, he’s been ambling around in my head ever since.
I’ve communicated some unpleasant truths about him in the past. He was bipolar and often went weeks without talking to any of us. He had a prevailing personality and when he was in one of his moods, darkness permeated the whole house. We walked on tiptoe and whispered. We certainly never laughed aloud. We never knew what started the silence or what would bring it to an end.
However, by definition bipolar means there’s a flipside; and when considering the implications of the day of his birth, my thoughts turned to all the fun he brought to my childhood. During the good times he was the most charming man in the world. He whistled classical melodies and recited poetry and, because of his booming accent and sense of humor, was idolized by the neighborhood kids. He mispronounced and misused words ironically. He always held my hand when we were out and about. And his name for me was Vagabond, which I thought was hilarious; and in the end it proved to be true.
Because he’d known desperate hunger during and after the war, his peaceful place was the grocery store. He never ceased to be amazed by the fully stocked shelves. Walking the aisles and shaking his head in wonder, he’d declare, “There’s enough for everybody. This is the greatest country in the world.”
But mainly what I recall are his outlandish notions about things that were otherwise unexceptional. Often without foundation, and always delivered with emphatic certainty, here are a few of his inexplicable ideas:
“Do never salt onions.” My sister and I took this to mean that if you’re eating something that calls for salt—a chopped tomato, for instance—you should put the salt on the tomato before adding the onion. We struggled with the paradox. Salt getting on the onion was inevitable—so what was the point? Also, was this a universal imperative or did it apply only to Haenisches? Who came up with this rule? At any rate, Daddy said don’t salt onions, so I don’t do it.
Another of his peculiarities was his fondness for socks. This came to light when he and I were running errands in his truck while having a discussion about the latest style, which was wearing athletic shoes without socks.
“Momma says it’s okay,” I told him.
“Your mother was raised by poor country people who couldn’t afford to keep their six kids in socks.”
“Everybody’s doing it.”
“Never will a child of mine go sockless,” he said.
As usual, I took his attitude to reflect that of all Germans; and from this I construed that the whole country had a bizarre affection for socks.
His dictum about preparedness still makes me chuckle—and I have no idea where it’s from or how it originated:
“Always carry at least five dollars in case the dog pees on you.”
Adjusting for inflation, I always have a twenty in my purse. One never knows when the peeing dog will come.
With three daughters to mold, he recited irrevocable philosophies concerning female grooming—for example, makeup was only for women who needed to conceal horrible skin. And coloring your hair was trashy, as were pierced ears and bright nail polish. Also, he didn’t approve of women shaving their legs. I tried it in my early teens and, due to blood loss, came to share his disdain, which is why I put the razor away forever. Don’t get grossed out. Some people are hairier than others and I’ve always thought the gold sprinkles on my legs were lovely.
The opinion that caused the greatest unease was his pronouncement about breasts, which was that if your boobs are big enough to hold a pencil in place beneath them, then they’re too big. How disheartening. I could work with or around all his other eccentric decrees, but there was simply nothing to be done about the boobs.
So here’s a fact all fathers of daughters need to know: If you want to make your little girl self-conscious for her whole lifetime, harp on something about her anatomy that simply can’t be changed.
Another trait of Daddy’s was that he had no tolerance for inanity. There were TV shows I wasn’t allowed to watch because he deemed them stupid. Remember these? Man from Uncle, Gilligan’s Island, The Monkees; oh, and most especially Hogan’s Heroes, which he understandably found offensive.
“No German is as stupid as they are in that show,” is what he said. I never doubted that he was right.
His impatience with stupidity is summed up in this oft repeated and rather snide aphorism—and this I’ve heard from others, not just him:
“Show me someone who smiles all the time and I’ll show you the village idiot.”
“It’s a cruel and judgmental thing to say,” from David, who has an aversion to negativity and enjoys it when people smile.
“But it’s true,” I defend. “Only a fool walks around happy all day every day.”
“You don’t believe in happiness?”
I close my eyes and channel my father, who had a foot planted on both sides of the emotional spectrum. Even during the happiest times he recognized that meeting responsibilities with a serious mind is an indication of a life well lived—and smiling for no reason isn’t.
Thanks for the memories, Hans Georg Haenisch. I’ve enjoyed remembering your upside.
Taken at our wedding, this is, sadly, the only picture I have of my father.
