I’ve been thinking a lot about Tevye lately.

Tevye. The protagonist in the Tevye the Dairyman stories.

The pious, irrepressible lead character in Fiddler on the Roof.

When we moved from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, to Fairfield, Connecticut, in 1970, we were suddenly just a quick train ride from New York City.

And Broadway.

Dad took that commuter train into Manhattan every weekday. One Friday, he brought home six tickets to a hit musical called Fiddler on the Roof. I haven’t come across Mom and Dad’s collection of Playbills yet, but I just know it will contain this:

There have been many famous Reb Tevyes over the years: Zero Mostel, Topol, Herschel Bernardi, Leonard Nimoy (would I lie?), and Harvey Fierstein. But our Tevye on Broadway that day in May of 1971 played the role more times than anyone else to this day (approximately 2,000 performances). And he was “one of the very finest Tevyes,” according to the late New York Times‘ drama critic Clive Barnes.

“Our” Tevye was extra special because he had grown up in Pittsfield, just like us. Paul Lipson was born in Brooklyn, but grew up in the heart of the Berkshires.

My favorite Tevye of all time, though, was my dad. Although he never played the part on stage, he knew every lyric and was always ready to burst into song.

Our original cast recording of Fiddler was nearly worn through, he played it so often. Although I wouldn’t say Dad had a booming voice, he could project when he wanted to be heard.

Tradition! Tradition! Without our traditions, our life would be as shaky as, as … a fiddler on the roof!

Like Tevye, Dad was a religious man, a family man, a provider, and a man who struggled with the ever-changing world.

No matter how his teen-aged children challenged his traditions, Dad loved us all dearly. Although quick to say “no,” he’d often follow that up with, “let me think about it” and sometimes he’d change his mind.

With the thought of three of us attending college at the same time, Dad had another favorite song: If I Were A Rich Man.

His favorite lyrics were toward the end, “If I were rich I’d have the time that I lack to sit in the synagogue and pray … that would be the sweetest thing of all.”

Dad didn’t even pause when my dairyman asked for my hand in marriage. And Gary never gave Dad a second’s worry about that decision.

It brings tears to my eyes remembering his eventual approval of me writing about Mom’s struggle with depression. “This could help someone. She’d have liked that.”

If you’ve seen Fiddler – either on stage or the movie version – you know how it ends. The Russian Czar sends an order to the village that all Jews have three days to pack up and leave their homes in Anatevka.

If Dad were still with us, he and I would be talking nightly about Tevye and Anatevka. A fictional village, yes, but based on a town in Ukraine.

Anatevka, Anatevka.
Underfed, overworked Anatevka.
Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?
Anatevka, Anatevka.
Intimate, obstinate Anatevka,
Where I know everyone I meet.

God bless and keep safe the people of Ukraine.

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