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View From Mars

My Father the Go-To-Ghost

July 29, 2008
Article and Illustration by Jim Burger

 
My Father the Go-To-Ghost Illustration By Jim Burger
 

I’ve been thinking about starting a neighborhood ghost tour. Tourists love those things and I figure it would be a good way to bring in some extra cash. The problem is we have only one ghost — Mr. Gunning, an old man who lived a block over from my house and passed away in the summer of 2006. I really miss him. He was one of those courtly Baltimore gentleman attorneys you never seem to see anymore. I used to walk by his place when he was working in the garden. His manicured lawn was his greatest source of pride. “Counselor,” I would say, nodding politely. “Scribe,” he would respond and doff his straw hat in a gesture of respect. We would stand in the sun exchanging pleasantries, making small talk, and he would always offer me one of his prized tomatoes. Naturally I would refuse — members of the fourth estate are forbidden from accepting such gratuities. When our conversation ended he would return to the gardening and once his back was to me I would pluck a tomato from the vine and be on my way. He was a nice guy, so naturally he makes a nice ghost. His spirit still flits around, but mostly all it does is yell at people to stop walking on his grass. It’s not especially scary. To tell the truth, it doesn’t so much yell as politely suggest.

The dead it seems will always be with us, or with me at least. That would explain my grandfather Morris still appearing 35 years after his demise. He turns up every once in a while and always it’s the same thing: “Get a haircut.” Not exactly a visit from Jacob Marley. Oh, I like reading about the famous specters from literature — Fruma Sarah, the butcher’s wife, or Hamlet’s father. But if either of those phantoms actually showed up, I’d have a heart attack on the spot.

My own father mercifully died nine years ago. He was so ill. But when he was alive he was very much alive, and an extremely nice man — well respected in the community. That was important to him. I guess that’s where I get it. One would be hard pressed then or now to find anyone to say a bad word about Leonard Burger. That was his name, Leonard, but everyone called him Lenny.

What always struck me about him was his attitude in the face of adversity. The worse a situation was the more he enjoyed and made the best of it. In my early teens I came home, my face ashen — I had seen my girlfriend with another guy. Remember, this was in the ‘70s, and it’s hard to explain, but she was the first girl to let me do things, you know what I mean? I wasn’t so eager to let a girl like that go.

“Good for you!” he exclaimed. “There are millions of girls in this world and some of them are like that. Forget her and go find one of the good ones.”

I had saved enough money to buy a car and promptly wrecked it. “I envy you! I only wish when I was your age I wrecked my car. It’s the best thing that could have happened to you.”

Here was his response when I lost my first job: “Excellent! Now you know employers are idiots. What a wonderful lesson.” That was Lenny.

He had been gone a few years when my mother had her stroke. No one saw it coming. She had gone to the gym every day and ate properly long before it was fashionable. It was debilitating for her and devastating for the family. She was a fiercely independent woman, but suddenly I was running her life. Dealing with the doctors. Putting things in my name. Could she stay in her home 200 miles from here or should she move? Twenty-four-hour care or visiting nurse? How is the medication managed? What about diet? How do the bills get paid?

During those first months I made hundreds of decisions. Some, made on the spot, under duress, have for better or worse stood to this day. There are no guides, no directions, no “how to” books on how to dismantle a person’s life. I made it all up as I went. I’d go to bed at night exhausted, only to lie awake trying to figure out what was next. These were matters of life and death. When I was backed into a corner, and I was backed into a corner often, the only card I had left to play was: What would Lenny do?

My mom is doing all right now — in the end I decided to move her to Baltimore. Lenny had a hand in that decision, I can assure you. In his way he probably saved her life. As I said, the dead it seems will always be with us. Happy Father’s Day, Pop. I’m doing the best I can with what you gave me.

 
 
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