It’s kind of a long story, but we called my father Doo, which rhymes with Moo, which is what we call my mom; they were married nearly 57 years. He was a southern Jewish gentleman, a wise and warm listener, the personification of mensch, a Yiddish word that means, to my understanding, a man whose nature is to do the right thing.

Marvin Miles Sager was known for his powerful handshake, his graceful manners, his impeccable dress. He never told me very much about himself; I learned a lot just by watching: The way he opened doors for people, helped the ladies with their coats, was quick to pick up the check. The way he followed through so beautifully when he threw or shot or ran­—he was always about the form and the content. The way he walked with such a proud and upright bearing­--a leftover, perhaps, from his days in the Marine Corps Reserve. During his service, Marv shot sheep with various firearms—a pre-med student, he’d found assignment (through family connections, a Jewish general) with a team developing a new style of body armor. The sheep, of course, were the guinea pigs. It beat the heck out of going to war.

That’s pretty much it for the anecdotes­—except the one about the patient who claimed to have become pregnant after falling off a porch. My sister is the real star of that story. At nine or ten, she was precocious enough to inquire what, exactly, the lady had fallen upon. Marv was not much of a raconteur. He was a listener. He was a toucher—he’d squeeze your triceps or pat your back or give you a bone-crushing hug. He was a handsome guy with a winning smile. A woman’s man by nature and by profession--obstetrics and gynecology. A family man by choice and responsibility. Always a hail fellow well met­. In my memory, he never once went on an overnight trip with the guys. There were no boys’ nights, no fantasy football, no golf, no man cave; in later years there was doubles tennis and Thursday afternoon sails on his buddy Leon’s boat (oh, to be a fly in that cockpit). His avocation was his wife and his family, their travel and their friends. Along the way he was a leader of men: two time frat president, co-chief resident, temple board president, condo board president. A great friend to others, an able public speaker, a master of Robert’s Rules, he was never much given to compromise. I have often wondered how that worked for him in the inevitable heat of politics. Clearly people loved him all the same.

One time I was in the middle of interviewing the comedian Roseanne Barr. We’d spent a bunch of time together over a four month period; she was gradually allowing me to meet a number of her multiple personalities. Apropos of nothing she looked up over her sandwich and declared: “You have to be the one who knows.” I’m not sure if this was a compliment or not, but I’m pretty sure I got it from my Dad. He liked to be the one who knew. He often saw things differently than others; it frustrated him like hell when people were missing the real point. “No, no, no,” he’d say, usually under his breath, sometimes out loud. He’d shake his head side to side. He’d draw in part of his bottom lip. In Marv’s world, there was a right way to do things and a wrong way. The average person, he believed, usually opted to do less than more. “Half assed” was a phrase he often used. It was hard to live up to his standards. “Licking the rental car clean,” was a phrase I once used once as a teen.

I would venture to say that Marv Sager never took a shortcut in his life. I know I live my life in comparison, thinking I’ve never done enough. He lived like somebody was watching his every move and decision. You might think this made him a religious man, but I’m pretty sure the somebody he was considering was not God. He did seem to find comfort in the community of his his faith­—clearly he was scarred by growing up as a member of a minority in a small southern town. Another of the few stories he told: The times as a boy he was chased and bullied because he was Jewish. Kids threw rocks at him; he lived with that for a lifetime. I think that feeling is the thing that alloyed my parents together at their very core. In our nuclear family, you knew you were loved and accepted no matter what. We lived beneath the umbrella of Marv’s muscular embrace.

Back in the day, Marv wore a size ten surgical glove; I wore an 8. We often held hands. For as long as I can remember, up until the last time I saw him, it was our little ritual, our connection: We’d sit on the sofa together, watching a football game, our fingers intertwined. Not exactly a Budweiser moment, I love you, man, but it was our thing, wordless and warm. He loved watching football (I didn’t, but I loved being with him). It was the only time he ever sat still, unless reading his ever-growing tower of professional journals, ledgering his finances, or performing his duties as a surgeon, in which case he was deeply focused.

The summer before I went to college, my Dad secured for me the opportunity to work in his hospital as a certified operating room tech. On the last day of my tenure, I was allowed to break the rules and scrub in with Marv­--to give him his towel after he washed his hands, to gown and glove him, to hand him his succession of instruments. It was a hysterectomy we performed together. There was an order to things­--clamp, cut, tie. I had every instrument waiting before he could ask for it. I worked with probably 100 doctors that summer, maybe more. My biased observation: Nobody tied a knot like Marvin Sager. Nobody closed a pickle jar or a jelly jar like he did, either. Marv was always worried about the possibilities, I think. It wasn’t just his generation­--the Depression, the Holocaust, two thousand years of persecution certainly takes a toll on one’s serendipity. For whatever reason, Marv always worked a little harder than everybody else; maybe he was trying to get a leg up on chance. I once spent five days with Kobe Bryant, known for his tireless work ethic. Believe me, he has nothing on Marv.

I have no clue about his inner life, what made him the way he was. I’m pretty sure he believed you shouldn’t burden your kid with your personal crap. In college one time, I wrote a letter asking him about himself. I was ending my four years and I’d done pretty well; my feeling was that my parents had really known their business raising me. I was proud to be his son; facing graduation and adulthood, I wanted to know more about his experiences as a young man. By his response it was clear he didn’t really like to get into that kind of talk. I don’t think he was much of a self analyzer, at least not in public. He will always be a bit of an enigma to me—as I noted in the forward to my last collection, I have ironically spent much of my life inside the heads of other men, figuring them out.

Like Marvin Sager, I’ve worked mightily to achieve my life’s goals; nothing I’ve achieved has come easily. But thanks to him, I have been able to concentrate on the bigger picture­—on my art, on my writing, on the tricky notions of the heart, on the Quixotic struggle with life’s big ideas and demons that a writer is privileged to wage. Marv always loved art and music. He wasn’t a big spender, but he paid dearly to become, with my mom, a governing member of the Baltimore Symphony. I have a feeling that if he had his way, he might have gone into radio instead of medicine. When I chose writing over law school, he let me keep the tuition check I was refunded. Though I have not been pampered, I have never wanted for anything I needed. He was always generous with his support. He was always generous with his feelings. When my daddy hugged me I knew I was loved.

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As it turns out, I am writing this on my lanai on vacation in Hawaii. Through the sliding glass door I can see my own son. The teenager is still asleep, the cheap floral bedspread pulled over his head to block out the light. Soon we will be traveling eastward for the funeral. The air is cool, the waves break endlessly, the surfers catch their rides. I write and cry. It was from my Dad that I learned my love for this kind of west-facing ocean front room that hosts me now (though my standards of acceptable lodging are probably quite a bit lower than his). It is because his influence that I live in San Diego, facing everyday his cherished sunset.

I can’t say I’m the same kind of father my dad was to me. Times have changed; I don’t have an obstetrician’s schedule or demands. Directly due to my dad’s generosity over the years, I was able to pursue my dreams. Now I can pretty much make my own schedule. Except for the occasional business trip, I’ve always been able to work at home, to make myself available to coach, to spectate, to help with homework.

The most important thing I do as a dad takes place almost every night. From the time he was small, I’ve spent the hour or so before bedtime on the sofa with my son, watching whatever on the tube. At some point, you can bet, our hands find each other’s and our fingers intertwine.

When we are together like that, I know who I am and what my place is.

As I am my father’s son, he is mine.