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I'm not sure of the entire story, but I know that his smile could light the world ablaze. He could enter a room, no matter how crowded, and own it with a few words and pats on the back. He was one of the boys--quick witted, who believed firmly in letting kids learn the hard way. He was a man of natural cheer; the kind of person who was remembered first by his smile, then by his words.
His name was Dudik. A Russian, Jewish name, as were all of the relatives from my grandmother's generation. We had only recently immigrated (I believe my grandma's mother and father, and their family, had come from Russia, and Dudik and my grandma were born in the US), and therefor had not fully "Americanized" on many levels. He believed in letting kids learn the hard way--you reap what you sow, spare the rod spoil the child, type of ideal. He taught my father to respect his mother, and to listen to her warnings. It took only one lesson. A lesson that my father never forgot.
My father was a toddler (according to the story), and being in the pre-childproof era, was capable of getting into some pretty nasty messes. He was sitting on the floor, eating (what, he doesn't remember) and every now and then, curiosity would overtake him and he would stick out the little metal baby fork and attempt to poke a power outlet with it. Of course, his mother was furious, and kept telling him not to.
"You'll get hurt, Mitchy!" I assume she had said. Dudik was there watching, and when my grandma had to leave the room, he decided to make his move.
"Hey Mitchy...you wanna put that fork in the socket? Go ahead..."
My father did. He started wailing at the electrical jolt that went through him. Dudik laughed.
"Bet you'll never do that again."
My father never did. He also never contradicted his mother when she said something would hurt. These days, I imagine Dudik would have been charged with neglect and child abuse. Back then, he was simply letting a kid learn a hard lesson.
He lived a good life, from what I've been told. One that overwhelmed all who knew him with his unforgettable smile and deep laugh. The few black and white pictures I have seen of him with that trademark grin hold a magnetic quality that can never be described with just words. He could drag people out of their sorrow, kicking and screaming if he must, just by being himself.
Till his last moment, he lived fully. He died young, as do many of the men in our family, of a cancer he never knew he had. One day, his left arm went numb, and he went to the doctors office, feeling fine except for that. He smiled to his family and waved, said he would be home soon (at least, I imagine that's what he did), and he went to see the family physician. In those days, from what I hear, it didn't take hours if you didn't have an appointment. Medical professionals cared.
He sat down on the doctors table, decided to lay down for a moment, and without pain, without regrets, without warning, and without ever losing his smile, he passed away.
Only after his death did they discover that he had been ill for years. It was a cancer that should have been debilitatingly painful, but he had never seemed to show any pain or obvious symptoms. He never even knew he had it.
To this day, my grandma and my father smile when they tell his story. It's not a sad one, to them. Instead, it's a joyous one. A story of a life lived fully, by a man who, even in his death, can still light up a room with just the memory of his smile.
My father told me his story when I was little, sitting on the bathroom floor looking for the childs stories in the weekly paper. He held his picture up for me to see, and my eyes were locked on the life held in the large black and white portrait, from an era when most people were frowning. I was entranced with his memory, with the tale, and I made a silent promise to become the person who would make him proud.
I would be happy. I would try to light up rooms with my smile, to be remembered so fondly. An innocent promise, but one I will never forget. One that a man, who I had never met, taught me just by looking at his photograph. I would try to make his memory proud. For my father, in his loving memory, had named his last daughter after him.
His name was Dudik. And I am his namesake.
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