My father visits me in my dreams. One dream included us walking on a mystical path in a forest, and him stopping suddenly behind me. When I turned around, he was a mass of green energy. So I hugged this energy, as if to feel it and keep it alive. I walked forward on the path and he became himself again for a moment, walking purposefully, wearing his trademark hiking Levis, old Army boots, and a baseball cap. When I turned around, there again was the glow, like the essence of his spirit, transformed by the outdoors and necessarily impermanent.
At the trailhead
My father died in 2013, and no, I am not over it.
The good news is that I had a lot of time with him on Earth, and not just while hiking — a deep love that he passed along to me. I went camping with him, most recently among the world’s largest trees at Sequoia National Park. We attended many concerts together, usually classical, always classic. (Cole Porter, Gershwin, and Fats Waller were OK.) My father didn’t care for things that were trendy or fleeting; he wanted me, one of his three daughters, to know “real music” as he called it. We shared music many times, from the American Youth Symphony at UCLA to the Los Angeles Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl. When I think of those concerts, I can picture him poring over the program notes and sharing with me his voluminous knowledge of the composer or piece, preparing me for the art that was about to unfold. Then the music would start, say the opening phrase of Mozart’s “Jupiter Symphony,” and he’d tightly close his lips and listen to every note with intensity and respect. This shouldn’t surprise anyone who knew my dad, born in Vienna in 1930 to parents with deep cultural ties. Mozart was also born in Austria, and his genius and legacy were something to revere.
My father and his family, European refugees
When I lived in L.A., just a short drive from my dad, I tried to share experiences with him as often as I could, even as I’d fled the coup in my early 20s and made my own life outside the ranch style house in the Encino hills where I grew up. My memories of him are distinct and indelible; the best ones feature him experiencing the natural world, taking in something larger than himself. He once wrote about this love, crediting his own father:
“My father loved to hike on the mountain trails among the woods, the meadows, the wildflowers, and the birds of these bright, sunny ranges, as well as through the occasional mist and fog that often enveloped these heights. I think some of the same joy of walking is in my blood. It is by no means an inclination to athletic achievement or to testing or displaying physical stamina or endurance or prowess. Rather, it is a feeling of well-being, a sense of being part of a world that is not artificial or mean or petty, a personal enhancement derived from solitude, the physical beauty of nature and the attainment of an objective by personal effort. For me, the experience is the same in the California Sierra as it was for my father in the Austrian Alps where the trails were punctuated with primitive wooden roadside shrines to the madonna.”
Dad and I doing what we loved
If it wasn’t the grandeur of a national park or the soaring sounds of centuries-old music, it was space and its infinite continuum that fascinated my father. When we went to the Griffith Observatory, my dad would share as much knowledge as any docent could have. He knew well of his own mortality and his small place in the universe.
When a job recruited me to the northwest, I visited my dad at home to start my long goodbye to the life I’d lived for so long. I tried to encourage him to visit me by showing him pictures of Olympic National Park in a National Geographic magazine he’d loaned me. It was the kind of beauty he adored, lush with cascading waterfalls. His eyes stayed locked on the image and he said shakily, “I like to have my children nearby.” I don’t know if that was the moment he realized I was leaving, but it was a moment that broke my heart.
My heart is still broken, from not seeing him on too many Father’s Days where I was 1,000 miles away, and for missing his birthday celebrations with my mom, sisters, and nieces for the last eight years of his life. I gained a whole new life in my adopted home, but I always felt a pang of guilt and sorrow that I couldn’t just drive to my parents’ place and sit in the pool patio with swaying palm trees, listen to music, and talk to Dad about politics, the night sky, or something else he was studying.
To study — this is one of the many lessons I learned from my dad. He encouraged us to read voraciously, to learn, and never assume. It’s no coincidence that he spent much of his time in his own wooded study at the far end of the house, engrossed in a book. I’m sure this was a function of him being an attorney, someone who’d sharpened his intellect and mastered the art of exacting details. My dad wasn’t the corporate type to play golf with his buddies or sit in a smoky lounge, though. He came home every night and put together photo albums of his three girls, painstakingly organized and labeled so that our lives were lovingly chronicled. In essence, he scrapbooked, something I sort of doubt other partners in his law firm did with such fervor.
The doting daddy. I’m the middle child, then called Becky and dressed like a clown.
My father always made time to do things for his family. He planned extraordinary trips around the United States as well as Europe, and made sure we studied up on where we were going first. He built us tables and benches, etched with our names on them, not his name in some typical show of craftmanship or credit. He created birthday cards for us, always punctuated with a timely rhyme or wink at the life we were leading at that moment. Dad was always doing things for others and asked for nothing in return. He would take the art I bought while traveling and make frames for it, always critiquing his woodwork even though the effort and love he put into it made it flawless. After his retirement, he joined the Los Angeles Astronomical Society to show inner city kids the moon and the rings of Saturn through his beloved telescope. This was often the first exposure these kids had to such a sight, and it was never to be forgotten. He always wanted to learn and to teach and did so with his trademark decency, integrity, and humility. What a legacy this is.
With Albert Einstein at Griffith Observatory. No wonder my favorite quote is Einstein’s: “I have no special talent. I am only passionately curious.”
My father had no interest in the banalities of pop culture or the pettiness on TV. What captured his imagination were things that were long-asting, stories of those who’d come before, history with its inarguable impact. He never lost sight of the fact that his parents had to emigrate to America to escape the Nazis, and sacrificed everything to do so. While my dad lost his own father at age 14 and his mother in his early 20s, their influence was irrefutable. Not only did my dad put himself through Stanford University, he also excelled at Stanford Law School and graduated with honors. I think my grandparents were at the root of my father’s drive to learn, and while I never met them, I feel immense gratitude to them. I know my own parenting style is influenced by who they were and who my dad became. I’m also grateful that my middle name is Felicia, the feminine version of my grandfather’s middle name Felix. I hold it dear, for it’s a tie between me and the man who’d sacrificed so much to give his kids and grandkids a shot at this good life.
Celebrating Dad’s 70th birthday
As I get older and especially in his absence, I realize just how great my father was, even as his small build and demeanor cloaked him in unassuming modesty. His is one of those extraordinary immigrant stories, and a stark reminder of just how fortunate my generation has been. I also know I’m lucky to have had my dad for more than 40 years. Yet it was not enough. He should’ve lived to be 100. He was hiking and swimming up until the moment he got sick, when the evils of pancreatic cancer ravaged his body and soul. I wish so much I could have him back to tell him about the Viennese concert we took our young girls to, or what I learned in the latest David Attenborough documentary. I would love to share with him about my latest trip or work project, and do what I could to make him proud. Because that’s what all daughters want: for their daddies to be proud of them. Then I realize I honor my dad by loving the things he loved, and my grief is kissed with a deep appreciation.
It is with bittersweet pride that I remember my wedding day. This was the last time I ever saw my dad happy. He walked me down the aisle to “Die Moldau” by Czech composer Smetena. This was a piece of music that I was struck by when I visited Prague on a backpacking adventure after college. I hummed it to my dad when I returned from that trip. He knew it well, for it happened to be his mother’s favorite melody.
Daddy and daughter walk down the aisle
At our wedding, Dad gave a lovely speech to me and my groom about our complementary backgrounds and almost fateful connection. My now husband is also quite crafty, and he built my dad a scale model of the ship that brought his family to America in 1938. It was a gift rife with history and consideration, and it brought my dad to tears when he received it.
For the father-daughter dance at our wedding, we picked the perfect Viennese waltz, “The Blue Danube” by Strauss. My dad, quite good at leading, enjoyed this moment immensely, and I’ll never forget everyone at the wedding smiling at us as Dad beamed to me, “I can’t remember the last time I danced.”
The last dance
Only a few days after the wedding, once everyone had returned to their homes, we learned that Dad was very ill. Signs of it were visible at the wedding but true to form, he didn’t focus on himself or want the attention. We watched as cancer stole his chance at a dignified death. I spent the happiest moment with him and the saddest, all within weeks of one another. As I visited him during his dying days going to too many doctors’ appointments, he reflected back on his life, particularly wistfully of the mother he wished he could have cared for. He also told me that my wedding was one of the highlights of his life. It will always remain one of mine, too.
What had been a joyful family time turned quickly to one of despair. While he lay in the hospital, I was overcome with emotion, so I wrote down these words to make sure he heard them:
“I am with you today and always. And you are with me, always. I want to thank you for being such a wonderful father. You have shown extreme fairness and integrity. You have infused my life with a deep passion for nature, travel, and music. You have done so much for me over the years, from building beautiful furniture pieces to those funny and clever homemade cards. And for your kindness, I thank you so much. Whether it’s “Die Moldau,” or “Your Feet’s Too Big,” I will think of you. Whether I spot a full moon or a distant constellation, I will think of you. And as I walk among grand trees and beautiful trails, I will think of you. Thank you for inspiring those things in me. Thank you for giving your life to your daughters and for all the love, Dad. I couldn’t have asked for a better dad.”
This is why for me, every day is Father’s Day.
Rebecca Kraus is a content strategist and creative consultant. After working in entertainment journalism and games design in Los Angeles, she moved to Seattle seeking new adventures. For a whole host of businesses, she writes branded copy, provides digital strategies, and helps develop products. She also blogs about parenting, politics, food, and frivolity. You can often find her playing in her backyard garden of eatin’ and hitting the trails with her family. Please enjoy her website.
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