Ben

This one’s special. It’s about my dad, Ben Meltzer.

He was born in Montreal. His parents immigrated to Canada in the 1920s. He grew up in the area of town known as The Main, near boulevard St. Laurent. His friends were also kids of Jewish immigrants. Their stomping ground included landmarks like Schwartz’s, Wilensky’s, Beauty’s and Baron Byng High School. They were all like Duddy Kravitz. They had fun. They got in trouble. And they were hustlers.

His boyhood friends called him Benny. Even when they were all in their eighties. He was Ben or Papa to the rest of us. Once in a while Benjy or Benj.

He called me Max when I was a boy. For no reason. He just liked the name. I never gave it a second thought. When I grew up he called me Michael or Mike. I can still hear the way he said it when he answered the phone.

He passed away a year ago. My mother and brothers didn’t want to speak at the funeral. None of us likes the spotlight. They may have hoped I would speak but didn’t say anything. They wouldn’t put me on the spot like that. I didn’t have to think about it. There was no way we were going to say goodbye to my dad without one of us speaking. I decided to speak.

I didn’t want to talk about his accomplishments. He was never impressed by accomplishments, his or anyone else’s. What mattered to him was who you were as a person. That’s what I wanted to talk about.

The problem was I didn’t know who he was. I knew him for almost sixty years but never thought about whether he was smart or funny or anything else. He was just my dad and I liked him.

Except now I had to think about it. And I didn’t have much time. We bury our dead quickly in the Jewish religion. I had less than three days to figure out who he was and what I wanted to say.

Thinking about it didn’t help much. Sleeping on it helped a lot. Something woke me up at 5 am each of the two mornings before the funeral and the memories came gushing out like water from a fire hose. I couldn’t stop them. One after the other. I wrote them down in a little notebook about the size of my palm. I scribbled away until they stopped coming. It was only when I read what I had written that everything clicked. I remember saying to myself: “Aaaah. So that’s who he was. What a nice man. And what a great dad. Boy, am I ever lucky.”

So who was he?

He was a giant, living Teddy Bear with one of the warmest and most welcoming smiles you’ll ever see. I can still feel the love from that smile. His hugs were also full of love. As we got older, he teared up a little whenever we hugged goodbye.  

He was a humble man, comfortable in his own skin. He never tried to be something he wasn’t.

He had a lot of very good friends. Friends for a lifetime kind of friends. Probably more than I can count. I don’t know where they all came from. Some he knew since he was a little boy and others he met on life’s journey. Like his car accident friend. They met because their cars collided. Then they became friends. He had that way. He was a good friend to them, too. The kind of friend you could count on for absolutely anything.

He was quiet. He didn’t say anything unless he had something worthwhile to say. But he enjoyed good conversations. If someone wanted to talk he could talk to them about almost anything.

When he retired he spent the winters in Miami Beach. He’d go down to the pool in the morning and sit in the same chair every day. For over twenty years. It was known as Ben’s chair. No one else would sit in it. He didn’t seek out the company of others. He was happy to mind his own business and read his Kindle. But people would always stop by to say hello and talk to him. People liked talking to him.  

He was smart. This was something I only started to figure out as I got older. Your parents aren’t smart when you’re young. He loved learning – reading, going to lectures, watching documentaries. He knew a lot of stuff. Before Google we’d ask him all our questions. He always won at Trivial Pursuit.

He didn’t talk about other people much. Gossip didn’t interest him. But now and then this quiet man would say something incredibly perceptive and insightful that made us realize he was taking everything in and was much smarter than we thought. People have told us he gave them great advice. We didn’t know he gave anyone advice.

He had style. He took me with him when he went clothes shopping or to the tailor. His suits and shirts were tailor made. Most suit linings match the colour of the suit. Not Ben’s. He wasn’t afraid to choose bright red or yellow linings. He took me to his tailor for suits for my Bar Mitzvah and my first job. I still remember those suits. The linings matched the suits. I wasn’t Ben.

Most of all he loved his wife, his three sons and his grandchildren. We spent an incredible amount of time together when we were growing up. In Montreal, the Laurentians and Miami Beach. He taught me how to ride a bike. How to play chess and cribbage. How to catch and clean a fish. We played golf several times a week. We lay on his bed together and watched every single episode of Star Trek. We drove to pet stores all over Montreal on Friday nights looking for interesting fish for our tanks. He came to all our hockey, baseball and football games. We built models together. He took me to my first Habs’ game and countless Habs’ games after that. He played with us all day every day on the beach in Miami Beach. That was his vacation. His favourite hobby was spending time with us.

Ben Meltzer was a mensch.

He lived the life he wanted to live. He touched a lot of people. Us most of all. We were the luckiest. He showed us what was important and how to live a good life even if we didn’t realize it at the time. For that we’ll always be grateful.

There’s a saying Jewish people use when someone dies: “May his memory be a blessing.” I didn’t fully appreciate it until people said it to me. His memories are indeed a blessing. They make me feel good inside.

It’s hard to understand how I can miss him so much and feel he’s always with me at the same time. Doesn’t matter. I’m glad he’s here.

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