When people ask me who my dad is—I tell them his name. And then, I answer the usual follow up question that comes "Oh, is he the doctor?" To save time, I mostly say "yes." But every once in a while, I wish I could explain to them who my dad really is.
Yes, he is a doctor. A very good one, I might add. I can't count the number of times people tell me that my dad fixed their shoulder, son's knee, grandma's carpal tunnel, brother's broken arm etc. etc. I see the respect they have for them in their eyes. And I have not forgotten the chance I had to be my dad's assistant for a while (during which I called him 'Dr. Malouf' and not 'Dad' for reasons of professionalism). I'm sure my mother has not forgotten the years of school, followed by residency, and the moving and poverty (yes, poverty J) that came with it.
But if you ask my dad if he's a doctor, his response varies. And well it should. I don't know a whole lot about my dad's growing up years—I have retained a few glimpses here and there. Here is what I know.
I know that my dad can do anything. Really, anything. I've seen him play the accordion, fix broken cars, doors, floors, build puzzles, blocks, make a killer salad, prune trees, dig ditches, drive a backhoe. I've seen the blown glass vases he's made—heard he worked in a machine shop for a while. He makes his own surgical tools. Who does that? Then he comes home and plays hymns. Sometimes even on the cello. When we go camping he serenades us on the harmonica, but he also plays the guitar, especially "fox went out on a starry night" we always liked the part about the "bones-o bones-o" the best. Appropriate since he is a bone doctor, don't you think? My dad loves words. He studied a lot of latin, and he's always using new words and encouraging me to learn them. He picked up Spanish last year as well. For fun, he grows apples, makes large tire swings, and bakes bread.
You haven't tasted bread until you've tasted his. It's the best. And he always makes enough to share. We used to deliver bread to neighbors every Sunday. Dad says that making bread, for him, does not count as work. I think the way he makes bread is the way he approaches life. He studies it—learns more, improves, keeps notes. The bread evolves and then morphs. Sometimes it gets thrown out and a new batch brought in. More often, he adds to it until the dough is just right. He keeps working at it until he is satisfied. Then he starts over J My dad is amazing.
Two weeks ago, we made pocket bread—a family tradition. Some people call it pita bread. Those people didn't grow up with my dad. He had a grandma he loved—named Aneesa (isn't that a beautiful name?) and he used to make bread with her. For Memorial Day, he told my boys all about it—I have never seen them sit still for so long when listening to someone talk about bread—but I think they sensed how special it was. How special it is to carry on traditions, the important ones.
When I went to college, I told people my dad was a farmer. It wasn't a lie. He is a farmer. He raises lots of crops—lots of apples and pears, a few cherries and plums. And he raises kids. I have to say, he's done pretty well. There are eight of us. And we can all bake a pretty good loaf of bread.
