The Watch

Inspired by Mrs. Chicky, who asked me if I would tell you about my dad, when he was alive. “He must’ve been a hellava guy,” she said. And indeed, he really was.

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My parents’ financial situation was always hidden from view. It never occurred to me that we were poor; after all, we had a house, nice clothes, and plenty of food.

Granted, we never ate in restaurants, had only one car and grew most of our own fresh vegetables in the backyard. Still, when I needed new shoes, I had them. When my jeans were too short, I got new ones. There were always fresh cookies.

Later, I realized that those years when we kids were young were lean ones for my parents. My father attended college on a full state scholarship – one that now barely covers the cost of books – and my mother was a high-school graduate with the academic record of a child of abuse and neglect.

My dad was raised by a single mother, pregnant at the age of 15, and abandoned by her alcoholic husband well before 30. With three kids and not even a high school diploma, she worked odd jobs all her life. My dad’s poverty was matched only by the abuse my mother suffered at the hands of her family members.

They married young, my mom and dad, with me coming along when they were 20 and 21. My dad was still in school and my mom worked part-time as a bill collector and bank teller.

My father, however, had designs on a different life.

As a teenager in Hamburg, NY, he ran with a wealthy crowd whose grand lakeside homes, speedboats, and sports cars whetted an already keen appetite for the good life.

Working long, hard hours, the same ambitions that led him to finish every problem in his physics textbook began to drive him up the ladder at the large manufacturing corporation where he secured both a college internship and, later, a full-time engineering position.

Years later, his work garnered him three US patents and the opportunity to take his family overseas for three years.

I was, as you know, a young teenager when we moved. Suddenly, I was surrounded by wealth – both at school and at home.

We started to travel, taking vacations to the Alps and the Costa del Sol. We always traveled on the cheap (the less popular island, the cheap hotel chain, the off-season), but the experiences were as rich as if we went first class all the way.

We were well-dressed, we ate out four nights a week. My dad had a BMW, courtesy of his company. We took taxis to Harrods and to the West End every other month attend the theater.

We flew back to the states twice a year, also on the company dime, and over time it began to seem as if we, too, were part of that sleek, monied cadre with whom I shared history classes and lunch hours.

My father, whose own childhood was marked by hunger and sleeping in makeshift bed on front porches, enjoyed it more than any of us. He was hugely vibrant in those days, gesturing for the bill in our favorite Italian restaurant in West Hampstead, where as regulars we often jumped the queue while the head waiter scurried to arrange a table for “the Americans.”

An abrupt departure from London coincided with my own leave-taking. While my family headed back to the Western New York city where I was born, I left for Boston and my college education.

It was a matter of pride for my father that I never touched a single financial-aid form.

On paper, my dad’s income would have disqualified me from the usual sources of Federal aid, but I was never even encouraged to pursue scholarships or alternate forms of funding.

I did not work in college until my senior year, when I chose to.

Money was never something I had to worry about.

What I didn’t know was that the move back to the states nearly crippled my parents financially. There were tax implications, the loss of a cost-of-living allowance … all sorts of issues from which I was protected.

They had to buy two cars immediately, and pay my first semester’s tuition in cash. They had all kinds of unanticipated expenses.

To this day, I still don’t know much about those first two years we were back. All I know is that they were strapped.

By the time I rounded graduation in 1993, the ship had righted itself. My father’s stint in London served only to shine his reputation as a golden boy and his fortunes – literally and figuratively – continued to rise.

Nonetheless, my father continued to watch expenses carefully, moaning when my mother spent $50 on jeans or when the grocery bill topped $200.

They day I graduated from college, my family and I ate breakfast at the campus’ cheapest hotel, where they were staying. I nervously eyed my dry scrambled eggs and sipped coffee with cream, no sugar – just like my dad.

After a few minutes of discussion about the day’s logistics, my dad pulled a small, wrapped package from my mom’s bag and handed it to me.

“We are so proud of you, sweetheart,” he said.

I opened the box.

Inside was an Oyster Perpetual Ladies Rolex, the feminine twin to the watch my mother gave my astonished father one Christmas in England. He chastised her for the expense, but it was clear to all of us that he was delighted with his gift.

I could not speak, tears spilling over onto my cheeks. It is the one and only time I have been stunned speechless.

Later, my mother told me that my father went to the jeweler’s himself and brought the watch home without even discussing it with her.

This from the man who griped every time I charged $20 to the “emergency” credit card that was handed to me when I left for college – and the same man who never purchased a gift for any of us. He left that chore to my mother.

I was the second person in my family to graduate from college – first my father, then, 21 years later, me.

The back of my watch is inscribed with the date, 5/15/93, but I do not need the reminder. That day will forever be etched in my memory.