On April 15, my father celebrated another birthday. I again paid quiet respects to the Gods, and some very good heart surgeons who performed triple-bypass surgery after I rushed him to the hospital on a sub-zero Chicago Christmas Eve in 1984. You’re awesome Dad, but remember to eat your vegetables, and keep riding that stationary bike, OK? Glad you quit smoking.

Milton J. Rosenberg is the son of immigrants from Ukraine who left because Jews were denied a good education, and sometimes rounded up and killed, for socio-political sport.

His mother, my late Grandma Rae (short for Rachel) spoke six languages, but had no formal education in the U.S. She emigrated with her husband Jacob after he first came alone to America, and then returned to Ukraine to woo her while arranging to send hog-hair bristles here for the manufacture of paintbrushes.

They settled in Brooklyn to raise a family. Grandpa Jack made his way – quite well it turned out – as a house painter, and then a building contractor. My dad was the water boy for the paint crews for a while. Jack and Rae’s two kids became professors. My dad is recently retired from that, but has been hosting a nightly radio talk show in Chicago for 30-plus years. I not so jokingly gave him the nickname “World Book” many years ago, because he knows absolutely everything under the sun. (Before Encarta, there were hardbound encyclopedias). Now at least I can crib items from his blog.

Snapshots and audio-tapes of Milt at the University of Michigan in the 1950s reveal a nerdy young rake in a fashion-forward outfit of tee-shirt, shorts, dress socks and wingtips! (Talk about self-confidence). He’s wooing my mom with Leadbelly-like tunes (or is that Big Bill Broonzy?) on a guitar tuned to Open D.

Like all good present-day neo-cons, my folks once hung with dippy socialists and faux commies - and so were all the more equipped to celebrate the glorious fall of the Iron Curtain.

Yet, our family experienced some minor abuse at the hands of conservatives and Woolly Mammoths, I must report. In the 60s we lived in Columbus, Ohio. Once, my mom was interviewed on the radio about an anti-Vietnam War march she was organizing. Somehow, the next day on our front lawn there magically appeared about twelve dozen pieces of dog feces.

And in Columbus, I had a playmate, a nice little girl, whose mom was perfectly happy to let her come to our house. But I wasn’t allowed in their home, because I came from a Jewish family.

I won’t go into the anti-Semitic hate mail my dad has received over the years in connection with his radio show. You’ve got to have a thick skin. Unless someone is burning a cross on your lawn, firing bullets, or overtly screwing you out of a job or home loan based on race, ethnicity or gender, let it ride - fer Crissakes. Life’s too short.

Another Columbus reminiscence: My dad had the temerity to not give passing grades to certain Buckeye football players who were flunking a psychology class he taught. He was called on the carpet because the famed football coach Woody Hayes wanted him to, ah, play ball, but he refused. During an administrative proceeding, an irritated Hayes kept calling him “Professor Rosenthal,” a common type of “mistake” by borderline anti-Semites, or the socially maladept (I suspect Hayes may have been in the first category).

Anyway, my dad made sure to call him, “Coach Hughes” in return. I always liked that story. Readers of a certain age (sheesh, I never thought I'd be lapsing into that) may recall Woody heaving a first-down marker along the sideline once, like a javelin, when he became upset with a referee’s call. Some fellah, he was.

I also remember my dad walking me through Chicago’s Lincoln Park during the 1968 Democratic Convention – I was 10. Activists of all sorts were camped out, doubtless smoking dope, screwing furiously and plotting death to the squares. Chicago undercover cops in cheesy polyester slacks hovered on the park turf in their standard-issue, “unmarked” sedans, looking both edgy and clueless amidst the gathering throng. That picture stays with me.

The whole world was watching, as the nation’s bastion of urban Democratic politics degenerated into chaos, and a police riot, shortly afterward. And so we got Nixon, Watergate, Ford - and in 1976 – just in time for my first visit to the ballot box – Jimmy Carter. That seemed a time of great hope. I was just off to college, and proudly cast my vote for him. Carter made a great contribution in the end, and I’m not talking about bringing those dumb sweaters he wore into the mainstream. He helped elect Reagan, who in turn hastened the crumbling of the Soviet bloc. Admittedly, it took me a few years to understand Ronnie wasn’t the dumb, evil bastard all my college pals said he was.

Anyhow, back to Dad, the only real Renaissance Man I happen to know personally.

Milt’s long tenure on the radio is remarkable in a business famed for quick turnover and frequent format changes. Over the years, he’s interviewed every imaginable luminary: Kissinger, Carter, Margaret Thatcher, Bob Woodward, and too many other authors, journalists, poets, tenors, scientists, seers, master gardeners, paranormal debunkers, cops, priests, mob informants, utopian visionaries, cooks and criminals to list here. There’s a whole lot more I could say about Milt, but for now, I’ll just leave it at this: I’m really proud of you, Dad. Keep it up!

Posted by Matt Rosenberg at April 15, 2004 09:45 PM

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