Why is it when I write about Mother’s Day, I get all sensitive and mushy? When I think about Father’s Day, I feel strong and philosophical.
They then go on to tell me stories of how he helped them when they first came to New York, how he set up their phone, electric and gas accounts, and worked to get them set up and acclimated in America. Some tell me that they will not walk pass Whiz Travel without a blessing or without hearing him say “Ala’a ma’ak (G-d be with you).”
My father speaks so frequently, with so much love and respect, about his father and grandfather.
“They came here and didn’t speak the language, didn’t have a penny to their name. Somehow they found a place to live, pray and make a living—they were amazing.”
He speaks this way and I see his eyes turn blue with delight and a sense of loss. It has been over 50 years since his father passed away and over 80 since his grandfather passed away; yet thinking about them still causes him to tear up and smile.
“My father and grandfather would go to greet the ships coming in and look for people who they knew or who looked like they needed some help. They would then endorse them and bring them to their home.”
He speaks about this and smiles. “We had one bathroom in the whole building and there were so many families living there.”
“My father would put up cots in the back of his barber shop and have a family live there until he made sure they had a place to live on their own.”
He speaks with such love and admiration about them that I cannot help but smile and tell him that I feel the same way about him.
My father is Sam Zalta—those words alone have gotten me into hotels, restaurants, jobs and countless conversations with strangers.
I used to work with my father, along with my brothers and my mother, for over 25 years at the travel agency. I would watch how he conducted business, spoke with people, dealt with situations and his overall personality.
When I was younger it would anger me when he would show so much trust to so many people; inviting them in for coffee, giving airline tickets without a cent put down. “Pay me when you get back—if you don’t have a good time in Acapulco you don’t have to pay me a cent.” They always did. He notarized documents for free only asking that the person put a donation of any size (or none at all) into the charity box on his desk and, of course, he’d give blessings and tell strangers “Ala’a ma’ak,” as they ran passed the store on their way to work.
I watched him and as I grew up (and continue to grow up) I remembered the way he always had a sincere pleasure and smile when he met someone. How he loves people and how they love him back—it’s natural and unforced.
These days most fathers look to become best friends with their children. We do it because we feel there was something missing in the relationship we had with our fathers. We want to be more involved with our children and try to be there when they need us.
Maybe it’s because of that or maybe it’s because the world is a very unsteady place and it can get lonely out there when looking for sincerity and a friend.
We find ourselves in situations that we cannot understand and we are never prepared for.
We take steps and try to dance around the cracks and the holes that are so prevalent on the ground.
Sometimes we find ourselves being a stranger in a strange predicament. What should I do? Something pricks us to remind us what “Daddy would do.”
So we try to follow in his footsteps and to dance to his rhythm of smiles, sincerity and love. It’s not always easy; but it wasn’t easy for him either.
Born in 1914, he went through two world wars, the great depression and living all around the country trying to make a living. He never complains—how does he do it?
That generation, the greatest generation, never learned the art of whining. They just fell down, stood up, dusted themselves off and started again.
My father, Sam Zalta—I speak of him with pride and admiration. He is my father. I walk in his footsteps the best way I can.
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Freddy Zalta is working on his third book, a novel tentatively titled: Cost per Acquisition.
