Local News
April 18, 2008
A Daughter Remembers: Judge Sol J. Friedman
Amy Friedman Cecil
Special to the Jewish Times
The following remarks were made at the funeral of Judge Sol. J. Friedman, the retired Baltimore County Court judge and former member of the Maryland House of Delegates member, who recently passed away.
People are complex. Like the story of the blind men and the elephant, we only know the part of the animal we experience. One blind man felt the trunk and described the elephant like a snake; another felt the leg and said an elephant is like an old tree; and yet another, grabbing the tail, stated that there was nothing to fear because the animal was small, thin and not very substantial.
Of the three of us, my Aunt Shirley, Bruce and me, I am the least qualified to describe my father, and cannot even tell you what part of the elephant I ever touched. The best I can do is to show you pictures from my mental photo collection. The images are jumbled, certainly not in an album, and highly idiosyncratic.
Bruce and I grew up with different fathers. Bruce was fortunate to have an intimate relationship with a man he lived 15 minutes from almost all of his life- my connection with Dad after I turned 17 was primarily through short telephone conversations punctuated by brief visits- me to Baltimore and, more rarely, him to the West Coast. Somehow Dad and I had to find a way to bridge the gap of miles and years and the tension created by two very strong personalities.
And we did- by humor, by shared pleasure in my husband, who loved him and never forgot to kiss him hello and goodbye, and later in my children, his first two grandchildren, and through small repetitive acts of Friedman family tradition that forged a solid bond that grew stronger as the years passed.
So- my snap shots:
My father would dance with me as a young child. I would stand on his feet as he moved around the kitchen and living room with me floating above the floor.
He had me out on the campaign trail for him when I was 2 or 3- asking everyone to “boat for my daddy and all the demmy cats.” In the next election he took me to our neighborhood voting precinct and held me in his arms so I could pull the lever and vote for him.
He let me sit on his lap in Annapolis when the House of Delegates was in session and turn on the red and green lights to register his votes for the measures on the floor.
He put on layers of clothes, including his long underwear (his gotkees) during one particularly bad winter just so he could carry me across our lawn and to the neighbor’s two doors away to play with my friend Sherry Lee because the snow drifts were so high they almost came to the top of my head.
Food figures in many of these father fragments:
I see Dad at home with me when my mother was still in the hospital just after Bruce was born making me scrambled eggs by mixing them in the blender, a technique I think he made up on the spot because he had no idea how it was really done;
The glee, much to my mother’s chagrin, with which he produced a jar of pickled watermelon rind that he could not resist buying on a rare solo trip to the grocery store, a jar that sat unopened in the refrigerator for years before someone finally threw it away;
The post trick or treat candy dump where he would ostensibly inspect our loot for razor blades- a task even then I suspected was prompted by his search for the candies he loved best; and
Our late night runs to Mandel’s deli where we would pick up corned beef, spiced beef, pastrami and pickles and a huge slice of strawberry shortcake and sit at the kitchen table late at night- just we two- and eat like little pigs with Mom and Bruce upstairs fast asleep.
My teenage years nearly killed us both, but somehow we got through them. Dad could sleep through just about anything, except for the soft sound of pebbles being thrown at my window after midnight by my first love. I would sneak out of the house undetected, or so I thought, and was always surprised to find my father in the living room, sitting silently in the dark waiting to make sure I was safe and to yell at “Paul Revere” that he needed to find someone else to wake up in the middle of the night.
The remaining pictures are almost a blur- Dad trying to teach me how to drive a stick shift when I was 16 (I don’t know which of us was more unnerved), coming home with a surprise for me which turned out to be a bright green Triumph Spitfire that he bought from a Baltimore City policeman, walking me down the aisle at my wedding. I can see him standing before the Supreme Court of the United States proudly asking the justices to admit his three lawyers- Bruce, my husband Tom and me. I vividly picture him holding his first grandchild, my son Max, at his bris with a dazed expression of love and amazement on his face.
Daddy had a vocabulary of Solly-isms- words or phrases that I find myself using as I grow older, and others that I never use but that instantly come to mind when I think of him. His lexicon included such gems as:
* You get one bite out of the apple (mostly said to the lawbreakers who appeared before him);
* Modulate your tone (HIS POLITE WAY OF SAYING SHUT UP);
* That’s right (always said in his particular sing song) and which signified that you finally understood something he had long appreciated;
* Res ipsa loquitor (which means the thing speaks for itself) - in other words-it’s obvious;
* And Aqua Pura- his favorite drink (that’s fresh water to the rest of us)
His jokes could set your teeth on edge – horrible wordplay like “She hung around the race tracka nd all the horsemen knew her,” and my favorite, his special toast which was always said by us in unison, often in his beloved Sabs, (and usually as a prelude to a sherry) which went like this: “They said she died from drinking beer from an old tomato can. Drinking beer can’t kill you, but an old tomato can.”
So what did I learn from my father? To love show tunes, good food, nice clothes, and a dry sack over ice. How to be confident even though small, that intelligence is something to be prized, and that family, especially parents, are to be respected and taken care of.
I learned that making friends is more valuable than making money, that not everyone will love you and as long as you have a few really loyal friends you have everything you need. I learned that integrity is crucial, giving is important, and that service of some kind, whether to government, charitable organizations, or some other means of bringing about societal good was not a choice- it was a given.
Most importantly, I learned to be strong, to depend on me, and to persevere even when things look bleak.
This poem was one of Daddy’s favorites and typifies his view of the world- I’ll just quote two stanzas from Rudyard Kiplings’ poem IF:
“If you can keep your head when all about you
“Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
“If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
“But make allowance for their doubting too;
“If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
“Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
“Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
“And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
“Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch,
“If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
“If all men count with you, but none too much;
“If you can fill the unforgiving minute
“With 60 seconds’ worth of distance run --
“Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
“And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!”
Our father was a complex, sometimes difficult, multifaceted, and often remarkable man. Judge, mondel bread baker, politician, athlete; a man unashamedly and easily reduced to tears, the loudest snorer in the history of mankind, Barbara Streisand lover, bridge fanatic, poker for pennies champ, Aunt Shirley’s big brother, Bruce’s mentor, friend and beloved companion, and, ultimately, the fire that forged my metal.
And now, when we have nothing left to do but tuck him in for a long sleep and hold him tight forever in our hearts, I have no words left except those which my brother would say if he were standing here-
For when the one great scorer comes to write against your name, he marks- not that you won or lost—but how you played the game.
Gay Schlefen my sweet daddy, it’s time to rest- you’ve played one hellava game.
Amy Friedman Cecil lives in Woodland Hills, Cal. Donations in memory of Judge Friedman may be sent to the charity of one’s choice.