Another lesson from my dad: the benefits of being a bridge

My dad's been gone for about two months now and I'm still here, processing things, chatting with friends, kind co-workers, and extremely patient baristas.

The phrase that's been on my mind lately is "may their memory be for a blessing." You may have used these words before or seen them in a thread -- a phrase of condolence that's part of the Jewish tradition. I've used these words myself and always thought they meant something like "I hope you have good memories -- I hope you remember good things."

I've mentioned before that my dad spent the last few decades translating family letters and memoirs, some going back to the late 19th century. As the only descendant of three sons, all the family papers passed into his hands. He spoke German, Hebrew, and English and had a gift for translation. In retirement he became the family story-teller, writing down the stories of the people he grew up with, and some of the people they grew up with.

Lately I find myself doing a much much smaller version of something sort of similar. I've been going through hundreds of slides my dad took and stored in bags and boxes. Lifting each picture to the light, putting them in labelled batches, sending them off to be digitized.

Pictures of my young mom and young dad in Berkeley in 1957. Our dog Coco as a puppy (Coco!). Old cars on old streets. Business trips with colleagues he loved. Nature shots. Bar Mitzvahs. Kids sporting spectacular striped 70s shirts. One of my older brothers as a five-year-old in a Halloween sad-clown costume that made me happier than I should probably admit in public.

I can't translate memoirs, but I can add metadata naming relatives, places, family friends. I can be a little bit of a bridge. I can pull the past into the present, share it, help it live on a little more.

And maybe that's what that phrase is really about. Not about whether the memories are good or bad. But more about the way that the act of being a bridge, a hedge against time, bringing the past forward, how that act itself can be a blessing. Can be comforting and sometimes joyous.

Maybe that's part of what he was up to all those hours translating letters and memoirs. Staying in touch with the people he missed and the people they missed. And pushing back against time just a little while he was at it.

He was a sharp cat, he was. And so here I am, box by box, enjoying the spectacular striped shirts. Another moment. Another memory. Another lesson from my dad.