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The Private Side of the Professional Man

2006; Elsevier BV; Volume: 126; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1038/sj.jid.5700196

1523-1747

Kenneth A. Freedberg,

Legal Education and Practice Innovations

“Your epidermis is showing!” As kids of a dermatologist, we were the earliest tellers in our second grade classes of that riotous (for the teller) and embarrassing (for the tellee — with awkward glances around) joke. The wonder of the joke lies in its longevity, as our own kids have used it again in early elementary school. As a medical student who nearly died of hepatitis in 1954, my father was guided toward dermatology because it was a new and exciting field, which would be “less stressful” than internal medicine. Perhaps it was, but I doubt it. Irwin might have chosen to run a small bed and breakfast on Cape Cod, but if he had, it would have been the best B&B on the Cape, one of the top bed and breakfasts in New England, and nationally recognized.While Irwin had plenty of work at work, he had plenty of fun at home. Sports, travel, music, and tinkering were among his many hobbies. His roots in Boston were strong; his father was the founder of the Arthur H. Freedberg clothing company, maker of fine men's suits, and his mother a secretary and homemaker. Irwin gave some early thought to the clothing business, but the lure of science and medicine was too much. This was probably for the best, as his fashion sense was limited (his shirt spectrum varied from white button-down oxford cloth to blue button-down oxford cloth, and ties were generally of the $15-for-five variety found on the Lower East Side). His roots did, however, help to attire generations of Boston-based dermatologists and other physicians who made the wholesale trek to Shawmut Ave. on Saturday mornings. His Boston years (1931–1974) marked him indelibly as a lifelong Red Sox fan. Some of my earliest memories are of games in 1964 at Fenway Park, when the Red Sox were terrible. But Irwin, Margie, and I went to the last two games of the 1967 “Impossible Dream” season, in which the Red Sox won the pennant, only to lose in the seventh game of the World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals. For all of us, this was a crushing sports disappointment, and we endured another 37 years of these with Irwin, until the magical season of 2004. Despite living in, and loving, New York City for nearly 25 years, my father remained a die-hard Red Sox fan. When receiving a career achievement award in full academic regalia from the president of New York University in November 2004, he removed his mortarboard and replaced it with a “Boston Red Sox – 2004 World Series Champions” baseball cap, to the delight of his family, but probably few others in the New York crowd. Academics were always important to Irwin. With some difficulty focusing his attention in high school, he was sent off to Lawrence Academy, and he then decided to attend Dartmouth, its isolation in the cold of New Hampshire seeming to be a setting for serious academic pursuits. This may have been true, though the stories we remember most are of Winter Carnival, and my mother (then a high school junior) visiting an all-male college and being out on a window ledge at some point for some reason, though the details get sketchy after that. Irwin and Irene both loved to travel, and they created the opportunity for our whole family to spend a year in Israel when my father was on sabbatical at the Weizmann Institute in Rehovot during the 1969–1970 academic year. With a Peugeot 404 station wagon we picked up in France, a Michelin guide, and a slew of maps, we drove across Europe, watching my sister Debby (at age 6) storm off alone across St. Mark's square in Venice, angry that we didn't have time for a gondola ride. Either she eventually returned on her own or someone found her, as she has remained an integral part of the family. The year in Israel established both my parents, in my mind, as intrepid adventurers, finding a thrill in the unknown, a trait the rest of us have inherited and enjoyed. After returning from Israel, Irwin and Irene bought a small, circa 1890 farmhouse in Holderness, New Hampshire. As a weekend retreat, it was hardly a place of lazy relaxation. Rather, in the first year, Irwin and I (armed with a Reader's Digest book on how to repair anything) proceeded to rewire, insulate, wallboard, panel, and redo ceilings and light fixtures in the entire house. We had a great time, although we never had to worry about straightening up for the photographers from Architectural Digest. While not an impatient person, Irwin liked to get things done (“Why wait?”). One Saturday morning we decided to panel a bedroom, laboriously set out to purchase the paneling and necessary tools, lugged everything back to the house (on the top of the aforementioned Peugeot station wagon, which returned from Israel along with my mother and both my sisters), and began the job. “Measure twice, cut once,” we had been taught, though it seemed unnatural for both of us. Progress was slow but steady, with the screeching of the circular saw, the pounding of nails on paneling, and more screeching of the saw. A short time later, a loud knock on the door. A neighbor, from 200 yards up the road, dressed in pajamas, slippers, and a bathrobe. “Is it completely necessary to be sawing, outside, at 3 a.m.?” he wondered. We looked at each other, quizzically. It did seem necessary at that moment, though we mumbled something slightly more appropriate as he stormed off without waiting for an answer. We did finish paneling the bedroom (the next day), as well as the rest of the work on the house, which remains a family haven 35 years later. As time went on, Irwin and Irene hired a professional builder for larger projects. One weekend in 1998, the builder (also a wonderful French-Canadian chef, it turns out) was finishing installing a skylight in the ceiling and came down from the attic. “Who did the electrical wiring on this house?” he wondered. Irwin and I looked at each other proudly, no doubt each remembering the thick yellow Reader's Digest bible of our earlier years. “We did.” “It's amazing the house hasn't burned down yet,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You need a licensed electrician to completely redo all of the wiring.” So we had the work redone, though we were both convinced he was just looking out for his own colleagues in the profession (a practice Irwin certainly subscribed to). New Hampshire was the base for many of our greatest family times. Irwin loved to ski with Margie, Debby, and me (and Irene for a rather brief and not altogether joyous period), and he continued skiing until age 73, with a technique described early on by friends as “without parallel,” though that is not quite fair. He loved the challenge and was an easy sight to find on the mountain with his bright purple parka (see fashion notes above). In the summer he loved canoeing and water-skiing with “Irwin's boat,” which later became “Grandpa's boat.” Rides across Little Squam Lake with his grandchildren (Matt, Dan, and Alyssa Bogdanow, Suzie and Kate Freedberg, and Joseph and Abby Diebold) to get ice cream by the dockside were particularly memorable. Every year on his birthday (July 4th), well into his seventies, he made a point of water-skiing to prove he could still do it. This was always a time for the whole family to get together, and I remember that while growing up we were very proud of the fact that our father was so special there were fireworks (all over the country, it turns out) for his birthday.Irwin's Jewish faith was a very important part of his life. In 1963, at age 6, I learned that John F. Kennedy was the first Catholic president. With some of the subtleties of world religion still out of reach, and perhaps with a touch of ethnocentrism, I assumed that all the rest had been Jewish. Irwin remained deeply involved in Jewish life and was an active participant in his synagogues in Boston, Baltimore, and New York City. Passover seders, wherever they were, were always an occasion for discussion, argument, learning, singing (off key for all the Freedbergs), and inviting students, colleagues, friends, and anyone else who needed a place to go. He taught us many lessons. Have fun. Keep your options open. Give back. And be there. My father took great joy in other people's successes. We could see this from his mentoring at work, as well as his pride in his sons- and daughter-in-law (Michael Bogdanow, William Diebold, and Joyce Jen), and his grandchildren. His oldest grandson, Matt Bogdanow, now 24 and a professional drummer in New York City, motivated him to become a regular with my mother at rock and jazz concerts in Tribeca, a great counterbalance to their love for the Metropolitan Opera. Irwin took the most pride and joy in Irene, whose love and companionship, from the window ledges of Dartmouth in 1951 to walking down First Avenue to NYU and Bellevue in 2005, were the stabilizing and wonderful forces in his life. Irwin and Irene very much complemented each other. Irwin always had a good time, and did everything with no regrets. He left all of us with a vivid template for fun, success, and life. I am grateful to Irene Freedberg, Margie Bogdanow, Debby Freedberg, and Joyce Jen for helpful comments and much more.