My Dad was born in Poland and his mom died when giving birth to my dad's younger sister. His dad had gone off to America. Dad was raised by his aunt in a religious Jewish family and was close to his grandfather who was a noted rabbi. Regretfully, his grandfather was murdered in the streets. Pogroms were always a threat and when they did occur, his aunt had a special place to hide herself and the children. She died when my dad was 13 and that started my dad's trek with his sister to America on the steerage of a ship whose lower deck was shared with many immigrants. When they got to America, they lived with his father and the father's new wife. My father discovered he now had 2 more brothers and a younger sister. All the children hated their father who was a mean drunk. My father and his dad could not get along and my father ended up living in the streets of New York. My dad was a worker and at the age of 13 started his own business and was making more money than the average adult immigrant. My dad was a great provider but the life he led scarred him. He never could give any compliments to anyone in the family. Now that I think of it, my Mom who was very loving never gave compliments,too. Maybe it was the times, the great depression, their growing up hungry under difficult circumstances, but they never gave any compliments. What they did do was give us, my brother and myself, a home and a future, and I will always be in their debt. The funny part of it, is that towards my dad's latter years, I became his best friend.
I very much enjoyed reading your story. I had a very similar relationship with my parents and I also became my dad's best friend later in his life. Thank you for sharing.
