Mortality and Faith by David Horowitz

Author:David Horowitz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regnery Publishing

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In the morning, when I prepare for the day ahead and shave the new-grown stubble from my cheeks, I often think of my father who has been gone these twenty-five years. The bathroom where he performed these same rituals also served as our family field hospital. I was an avid competitor in neighborhood games and often ran shoeless in the streets, which led to scrapes and cuts requiring attention. Among the comforting memories I can still retrieve are those of my father as our resident medic dressing the wounds I acquired at play. As an adult I was able to see that he was a weak man, unable to rescue himself from the deeper hurts that life inflicted. But when I was young he was my Gibraltar, and I was confident he would never fail me.

Every morning I would wake up early to watch his preparations, sitting on the closed bowl beside the sink, or standing discreetly to his rear, my head rising just above his waist. His towel would be draped around him, his small athletic frame faced to the mirror and his bowed calves visible under the towel edge. The routine that followed never varied. He would lather his cheeks and puff them out, first one and then the other, then pull on his chin with his free hand until the surface became taut and smooth. In measured strokes he would draw the razor down from his ear in the same deliberate manner with which he applied the bandages to my wounds. Then, when the foam was swept away, he would tear a tissue into little squares and place them over the spots of blood where the skin had been nicked by the errant blade.

Ever since my angina I have had to be careful about cuts. The blood thinners prescribed by my cardiologist create a moderate hazard when the skin is pierced. A slight break barely noticed before could cause blood to pour like an open faucet. Fortunately, as a result of technical advances over the intervening years, the disposable razors my father used have been greatly improved. Gone are the single-edge Gillettes whose scratch and tug led to inevitable breaks. My razor now bears the same company name but comes with a track holding five finely spaced blades that vibrate with an electric pulse regulated by a microchip. The shave this complex device provides is so smooth I can hardly feel the hairs being severed as it passes.

This is the detail that provokes the memories. For though my father was normally silent during his morning routine, he would sometimes halt his razor mid-stroke and turn to where I was standing to explain to me the sinister designs of its makers. These were the capitalists, who were in business to make profits and not to serve human needs. Consequently, Gillette would never create a perfect blade, or one that would last longer or even forever. He delivered this homily on many occasions, varying his examples to illustrate the

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