The Brothel Thing

Strange advice may be the stickiest.

When I was ten, my father looked up from his book and said, “If you’re ever stuck behind enemy lines, find a brothel. They’ll hide you.” Then he went back to reading, leaving me to look up “brothel,” getting even more confused.

Advice like that wasn’t unusual. He dropped odd guidance out of nowhere: “Don’t inhale cigars.” “Never put more than one ice cube in a Scotch.” “Don’t wear clothes with visible brand names.” At least the last one was age appropriate.

As a teen, I rolled my eyes. In my twenties and thirties, I ignored him. Now, I don’t have the luxury — he died a couple of years ago. Every year on the anniversary of his death I toast him with a Scotch, one cube.

I wonder what advice my kids will remember. I want to be remembered, don’t you? Oddly, he didn’t. Before he died, my brother Steve asked how he’d like to be remembered. My father, without self-pity, said, “Just forget about me as soon as possible.”

Who says that? I want my kids to miss the hell out of me. Why would he want the opposite?

I think the answer is in another bit of advice he loved, from a medieval rabbi named Hillel, who said: “If I am only for myself, what am I?” Asking us to forget him was my dad’s final way of living for others. He didn’t want us to mourn.

Our kids act like they don’t want our advice. They roll their eyes, like when I told my son Alex that cracking his knuckles would give him arthritis. But when we’re gone, they’ll remember — and be grateful. Like I am now.

My dad wanted me to forget him, but I won’t. And I’ll never forget the brothel thing.