On June 6, 2008, we will build on the legacy of the courage of D-day.
While we will be meeting at the end of Ocean Park Blvd., in Santa Monica, CA, we invite everyone to "storm" their local beach, and at 12 noon PST, we will take 10 minutes to pray for peace worldwide.
Charity
Just after his 77th birthday, Poppa called me in a confused panic. It was a Friday, and was almost four o’clock my time, which meant it was almost seven in the evening in New York.
“My electricity may be cut off,” he pronounced, worry evident in his voice.
“Why Poppa?” I asked.
He detailed how a young man had rang the bell earlier in the day, and told Poppa that in order to keep his electricity on for the weekend, he’d need to pay a cash down payment of $30.
“A transformer blew,” Poppa explained, “and they need --”
I was chuckling.
“What?” He asked.
“Poppa...”
The recognition that he’d been the victim of a scam artist started to dawn on him. His resignation had a humorous tone. “You think I’m a doddering old man, don’t you?”
“Uh, huh.” I agreed.
“You don’t have to think so...oh, Christ, Tori, please don’t tell anyone.”
“Not as long as you’re alive,” I assured him. “You’d be a target for everyone out there.”
“Oh, damn it! I feel like an idiot.”
“Oh, Pop, don’t worry about it. Hey, at least your electricity won’t be turned off.”
“That’s not funny. Please don’t tell anyone. I’m so stupid.”
I felt badly for him. “Pop, it could happen to anyone. People like this prey on seniors.”
“Yeah, I guess. I hate that word, you know, s-e-n-i-o-r-s. Sounds like a disease.”
“Okay, mature Americans.”
He laughed, “Oh, kid, your father is so gullible.”
We laughed, and for months after that, I’d phone and threaten to turn off his electricity unless he sent me thirty bucks. I’d always get a check in the mail a few days later with the word ‘blackmail’ written in the note portion.
As I was cleaning out Poppa’s desk drawer, I came across his checkbook. There is something comforting about finding anything in a deceased loved one’s handwriting. It’s as if they were there a moment ago in time, putting pen to paper, and writing an entry about something meaningful to them.
I thumbed through the check register to see what he bought. Some of the names were what you’d expect to see monthly: rent, phone, etc. But there were other monthly payments that took me by surprise.
Paralyzed Veterans of America. Poppa had given ten dollars a month for as far back as I could tell. The National Organization of Women was there too. And then there was the Sierra Club -- his records only went back five years, but they were there like clockwork: ten dollars, every month.
Poppa had given to these charities for many, many years. I’d never thought much about donating to anyone but myself, and being a bit of a skeptic, I always thought the money given to charities was mostly skimmed by those pretending to help those less fortunate.
Of the two of us, I was the more world-weary. It touched me how Poppa really wanted the world to be a better place and believed it could be even after all he’d experienced. I was at once proud of my father for believing in the goodness of others, even though I sometimes didn’t. And, more importantly, proud because for what little he had, he gave something. Even after all he had witnessed, he believed in helping others.
Today, I continue giving to his charities, and the spirit of generosity continues in his name.