I think it’s fair to say that many have endured a parent’s jesting (mostly) about what will, or will not, be left to you in their Will. It can’t be just a Jewish thing. Usually, it comes off like the Swamp Castle scene in Holy Grail:

“One day, lad, all this will be yours!”
“What, the curtains?”

It may be tongue in cheek – meant in humor – but in reality, you are waving your own mortality in your children’s faces. For most of us that is not a pleasant choice for contemplation. I was lucky – I got to spend more than 60 years listening to my Dad doing the inheritance spiel. Since I was a teen, my response has been to remind him that all I wanted from him was his Saltines can. Only that mattered.

What started as an inside joke came to have more meaning to me as the years passed. I came to realize that the Can contained more than crackers. It contained dreams and debates. It was full of memories of time spent with my Father. Noshing. Chatting. Arguing. Often arguing vociferously which, though not unusual between a father and son, was unique in that 90% of the time we were arguing the same side of the dispute. And, as the saying goes: put two Jews in a room, get three opinions.

It wasn’t the original can. The lid to that one was lost, or damaged. That can was relegated to holding bits and pieces on his work bench. The replacement would have been early ‘70s, I think, but this is the one I remember best.

We were big on a nosh before dinner. Sometimes he’d say: a bissel forshpayz, with a slight nod. A little appetizer? We’d head for the kitchen table for the Saltines. No Generics or store brands. Only Nabisco Premium Saltines for him.

The toppings were varied – chopped liver or whitefish salad if around. Kraft cheese spreads whose empties became juice glasses (occasionally the pineapple, but most often pimento). Dad’s favorite “invention” of a Saltine topped with a slice of Jarlsberg and a schmear of grape jelly. (Don’t knock it. It works. I highly recommend Jalapeño Jelly though).

Beyond those was the jars of herring (Vita preferred) either pickled or in cream sauce. Fishing in the jar for a bit of onion for each bite. Two guys – a Father and Son – having a fress, ignoring warnings to leave room for dinner, heatedly arguing about who had the best reason for not having a Southern Baptist in the White House (apologies Jimmy. We were both wrong about you).

Dad died two years ago today, at 96. Quietly, peacefully, in his own home, with my wife and me beside him.

The Can became mine.

I must admit that I considered using it to contain his remains, instead of that black “tupperware” box the funeral home uses. That would have been as much a waste as a fancy urn. So, it is here on my bookshelf where I see it every day.

I am going to take time today to have some herring on a Premium Saltine and think of my Pop. I will smile as I am smiling now. There is little sorrow in the blessing of his memory. I will carefully arrange a bit of the pickled onion on top. Maybe a Dr. Brown’s to wash it down.

As the Good Book says: There can be no joy without food and drink[1]!