Living Legacy

(Cape Cod Times Father's Day 1982)

     I don’t remember exactly when I first began to watch the sunrise creep over First Mountain, but I clearly remember why. My father, the early riser in the family, would come upstairs to awaken me for school and stop long enough to point out the changing pastels and dawn-tossed clouds hovering on the horizon. Sometimes, wiping the sleep from my eyes, I’d stand with him, for a moment or two, and breathe in that golden light, before beginning the morning rush to get ready for school
     He was always the morning chef in our house, clattering around among pans, fixing weekday bacon and eggs. He read aloud Russell Baker’s column over coffee and orange juice, switching once in a while to a New York Times editorial. My dad liked to season our breakfasts with world affairs and ironic humor.
     Weekends were times when Dad’s presence in the house was even more clearly felt. His all-day spaghetti sauce was famous among family and friends, who were often gathered around our noisy dinner table. It was only when I got older that I realized how odd it was to have a father who vacuumed and cooked dinner, and seemed to enjoy doing both with the Metropolitan Opera booming in the background.

     Weekends were also times to visit relatives and friends on long drives which we kids could have easily lived without. It was on those drives that I learned to do math problems in my head, ever competitive with my brother. Dad would call out the problems from the front seat, his eyes always on the road, while we scrambled behind, using practiced shortcuts, to be the first with the right answer. In self-defense, not being overly fond of math, I learned to fall asleep at will in the car.

     My father taught college mathematics while my brother and I, “faculty brats,” struggled with long division and fractions. His profession was always a part of our lives. When publishers sent him programmed learning books to review, I got to test them out as the regular in-house guinea pig. Later, when he co-authored a freshman math text, he had me help check the galley proofs, though I understood nothing of calculus. I never did find out what  stood for, but I sure learned how complicated writing could be. His colleagues at Newark College of Engineering were—and still are—our extended family, although I never did learn how to respond when Professor Barkan phoned, asking for “the Bookie,” a reference to their joint work in probability.

     The third floor math department in Cullimore Hall was a second home to me. Visits there were always fascinating, mostly because the one large room was a jumble of desks clustered in twos and fours, chaotic piles of mysterious-looking books and papers, and viney plants with their tendrils taped to the walls. There were never less than four animated conversations competing for my attention, while students, slide rules, and coffee cups occupied any spaces not claimed by the rest. It seemed the very antithesis of the math classes I attended so reluctantly.

     It was always clear to me that Dad enjoyed his job. His conversations were filled with anecdotes of school. I remember one tale of an imaginary student, created by a mischievous class, who carefully handed in papers and completed tests for the “ghost.” Dad only caught on near the end of the semester. Two other prankish classes swapped rooms, leaving Dad and Professor Barkan, who’d been tardy to their adjoining sections, thoroughly confused. Dad retained his good humor throughout, and continued to share much of his work with me. He was determined to be fair, and so used a mathematically random system for calling on students, and regularly ignored the lowest test grade of each student and averaged the rest.

     The more I learned, the more I understood that he was a rarity—a father who not only didn’t dread Monday mornings, but who felt a sense of accomplishment at the end of each year. It wasn’t unusual for our family to encounter a former student, while shopping or traveling, whose face lit up upon spotting “The Professor.” Dad would almost always remember the name that went with the face, and afterwards a quiet smile lit his own eyes for hours.

     Dad always claimed to have become a teacher by accident. That may be, but teaching is something he was born to do. Anyone whose mind is as open to new ideas and who truly loves learning, as he does, cannot help but teach and touch those around him. And, at bottom, Dad always liked young people. We kids benefited because he listened; he took us seriously.

     Not that he always agreed. In my family, Dad is known as a world-class devil’s advocate, and our philosophical arguments were often less than sedate. It took me years to figure out that half the time his cynicism was faked, a stone on which to hone my intelligence. But we always assumed, with him, that ideas, that learning, were vitally important.

     It is no accident that my brother and I are both committed educators, each in our own way. Paul travels the small communities of North Carolina and bordering states, sharing his knowledge of solar technology and teaching people that, working together, they can change their communities for the better. I struggle along in public school, sharing my love of language, of reading, and of writing with twelve and thirteen-year-olds on the brink of discovery. When we are successful, the people we touch realize that how they choose to live is the most important decision they will make. It’s a lesson my father taught us both long ago. I remember it every time I notice the sunrise on my way to work.
(Carl Konove passed away December of 2007 at 91, 6 days after winning his last tennis match)