Fruitcake
Those who know me well and have nevertheless chosen not to discard me like a stale biscuit, will probably agree that I’ve lived most of my life as a “fruitcake.” To be clear, that’s not a disparaging term. I love fruitcake. In fact, in the compendium of forbidden eats, a good fruitcake is close to the top of my list.
I didn’t inherit my fruitcake characteristics from my parents. My father would admit that there is less than an eighth of a teaspoon of fruitcake in his batter. In fact, he will go down in family lore as the man who, presented each year with a rum-soaked Christmas fruitcake by a close friend, insisted upon cutting it so thinly that I could see the light. One year, I swear I could actually read The Wall Street Journal through my slice. The Journal read infinitely better that day, and, of course, the cake lasted all year. But seldom did my siblings or I get a reasonable taste of the fruitcake.
For years, I thought I inherited my love of words from my father, and whatever compassion, humor and emotional intelligence I have, from my mother. But inheritance is never so precise or clear cut. In her later years, my mother has become an accomplished Scrabble player as well as a sought-after New York Times crossword partner among her many friends. So, perhaps, I get my love of wordplay from her, too.
But I inherited not a jot of my father’s intense, organized, order-driven genes. Hence, my fruitcake-ness, whose quality I’ve thought for most of my life represented the best in myself. Disorganized and undisciplined, yes, but nevertheless, cuddly and loveable. Hairy in the ear department, say the grandchildren, yet a teller of uproarious stories.
To find organization and discipline, I had to marry someone with those qualities. To be clear, my wife doesn’t have hairy ears, and she, too, is cuddly and loveable. But in the in-between moments, there is no one on the planet better organized, more capable of pulling rabbits out of hats, or helping me order my life. She makes me feel as though I might just be disciplined enough to survive into my fifties, assuming I remember to eat and sleep.
I married a girl just like dear old Dad, and thank goodness I did.