“I got angrier as the years went on because Fritz finally began paying more attention to me after I got my doctorate. The attitude was ‘you weren’t any good until you at least got your degree.’ I got the feeling, partly confirmed by him, that if I became a Gestalt Therapist, everything would be groovy. But unless I became a practicing therapist, I didn’t have much worth. I was always torn between wanting to go in that direction and gain his approval and feeling that’s not really me. So, I resisted it.
“I never knew what kind of behavior was acceptable in the sense of what will please him; how can I get his attention. What would be good enough, both to him and my mother, to really merit their attention? I was on that quest for a while but in the last few years realized it was stupid. Because even when he was alive, there was really no way I could please him. Eventually, I discovered that when I acted in my own interest instead of trying to please him, that would please him more. So, I started not to pay attention to him in terms of getting him to pay attention to me.
“I used to brood on the question, ‘Why can’t he just pay a little attention to me? Why couldn’t he come to my high school graduation?’ He did come to my Antioch graduation, which surprised the hell out of me. And he came to my marriage, which was also in Ohio. But those were the only big-time occasions he got involved in. Otherwise he was either too busy or off somewhere else. But in Albuquerque, I gave up the thoughts of how to get him involved when I began to enjoy what I was doing.
“The contact with my family has always been limited, especially with my sister. My mother would visit me about once a year wherever I was—in Oregon or here. Now I’m part of her route. She won’t come and visit me any other time except when she goes to Los Angeles or San Francisco, which is usually about the end of February.
“My Dad would come and visit the last few years of his life. He started to get more involved with me partly because I was getting into things that involved therapeutic activities, but even more because my wife was interested in being a therapist and had the potential of being an excellent therapist, which she now is. Fritz spotted that and worked with her, coming in as you came in. He would fly in one evening and leave the next day. But those few hours would be very important hours, both for me personally, but more for my wife because of the kinds of things she picked up and the training he gave her.
“He’d come in and the conversation would usually turn to me at some point. How am I doing and how am I feeling? During the last six or eight years, he would ask me about myself and focus in on me. There was more of an interest in the last few years.
“I was never out to Esalen while he was alive. It was the same old business of my resisting going even though he had invited me, because he hadn’t actively invited me. He said, ‘If you’re around, drop by.’ He didn’t say ‘I’d really like you to come by, and see what we’re doing,’ or anything like that. It was our usual interaction. I didn’t have much money at the time, though money wasn’t everything. I think it was much more of a contest than actual money. A few dollars can get you there if you want to come. I’m sure that if he said, ‘I’ll pay your way if you want to come,’ I’d have come. But that little contest was going on.
“I phoned him in Chicago during his final illness. He was pretty sick, but, at that time, he didn’t know what it was. He said that he felt pretty weak and tired and he really couldn’t talk very much. I remember thinking something to the effect of, ‘Would you like me to come and visit you?’ I remember being in a bind, then, because I was thinking that I didn’t want to say that I was interested in coming to see him, for that would imply it was pretty serious—maybe near death. Yet, if I didn’t say anything, that means I’m not interested. In the end, I decided not to go. If I didn’t take the trouble to see him at Esalen a couple of years earlier, when we could have interacted with each other, why run to a deathbed sort of thing?
“When I think of myself as a parent, I can either reject or model myself after my parents, as can all of us. I know I don’t want to be like him. And I know I haven’t been like him. Maybe I’ve gone to the other extreme, but I do things with my kids; I enjoy being with them. I think it’s important that they feel that someone cares and is concerned. Not overly involved, because that can be a drag, too. I can see from my sister’s case how that can be pretty bad.”
Rae Perls, an attractive, perky, good-humored, intelligent woman, described one of Fritz’s rare visits while they were living in Chicago.
“Out of the blue, we would get a telephone call. ‘Hello. I’m at the Palmer House. Come get me.’ It was never ‘What are your plans? What are you doing tonight? Would you like to see me? I would like to see you.’ It was ‘Hello, I’m here. Come get me.’ That was so typical of the way he would relate to Steve. And Steve would go get him.
“When Fritz came, he always wanted us to be his audience. It wasn’t until Steve was into graduate school and I was going ahead with my training that Fritz paid attention to us—looked at us. It was only in the last few years that Steve had something to stand on stage and show off about. As Steve gained confidence, he forced Fritz to pay attention to him. ‘Look at me. This is what I’m doing. This is what I’m excited about.’ He came to life a bit more and Fritz had to look a bit more.”
Alone, with Rae, I share my belief that her husband must have wanted Fritz to say, ‘Hey, I really like you. I want to be close to you and around you without any strings attached.’ I told her that I was convinced that if Steve ever asked for more closeness, Fritz would have given a lot.
“What you’re saying he did say to Steve, but he said it too late. We came to Albuquerque nine years ago. I’d known Fritz maybe ten years by then. He brought Allison, Ren’s oldest daughter, out that first summer for a visit.
“We sat outside that first night and Fritz said to Steve: ‘Why don’t you tell me I’m a bastard? I would really appreciate your getting angry at me. I’ve been a lousy father. Say that to me. Let’s have it out.’
“Steve wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, I think. Steve said, ‘What good is it going to do me to call you a bastard now? I’ve lived my own life all these years.’
“I felt that Fritz was frustrated. He attempted to have a real encounter with Steve that evening, and Steve wasn’t having any. I just sat and listened and didn’t get into that. But I remember feeling that somehow it was a victory for Steve. That Fritz seemed to be saying, ‘This is the time and the place for me,’ but it wasn’t the time and the place for Steve.
“A lot of things happened those last few years that were really a shame. It was a year or two later that the letter from Steve—the one Fritz mentioned in his book—was sent.1 It was funny, too, that he put so much meaning in that letter.
1 Fritz referred, in In and Out the Garbage Pail, to the immense satisfaction he got, at Esalen, upon receiving his first personal letter from Steve.
“Every Christmas, I would bake things and gather together a box of stuff that I’d send off to Fritz from us all. And, generally, Steve would have no part of this. But I wanted to, for Fritz gave me what I needed from him, which was some attention and some training. But that particular Christmas I commented to Steve that ‘It would be nice if you’d just write a note to put in there. It’s up to you, but I feel funny, year after year, sending this stuff off and I sign our name. That’s really phony.’ And he said ‘Okay,’ and sat down and wrote Fritz the letter.
“I never read the letter, but part of the letter was ‘Please feel free to come and visit us whenever you want to.’ It wasn’t but three weeks later that Fritz called and said, ‘I’m coming for the weekend.’ Which was a fantastic response to such a casual invitation.
“That weekend, I felt, was a tremendously important weekend because Fritz was really with us. We bought some land near the mountain and took him up and walked around the land. He liked that. And Steve took those three days off along with the kids—Nancy and Bob. I remember
that they were with us because Fritz wore his little terry-cloth jumpsuit and when we went into a restaurant, Bob said, ‘Is he going to go to the restaurant like that?’ For he had his long hair and beard. And Nancy said, ‘He looks neat that way.’
“I fed him breakfast one morning and gave him the newspaper. I sat at the table and read part of the paper, and he read part of the paper. A few hours later, he said, ‘I like this. This is a good visit. You’ve learned not to entertain me.’ It was a very good weekend. When he left, I felt there was some warmth and affection. He and Steve hugged each other. It was the first time I’d ever seen that happen. This was in January of 1968. The following fall was the APA [American Psychological Association] meeting in San Francisco, at which time Fritz had his seventy-fifth birthday party. That’s when the whole thing blew up. I laugh, but it was sad.
“We knew we were going to San Francisco for the APA. Fritz wanted us to be there for the big birthday party, but Steve didn’t want to be Fritz’s son, standing around. We arranged to be there a few days early to spend some time with Fritz but not as part of the mob that was celebrating his birthday. We told him that was the reason we didn’t want to go. But Fritz didn’t hear that.
“A week before San Francisco, Fritz called. There had been some letter-writing, where Fritz had said he was doing a Mill Valley workshop in which he wanted us both to participate. I was on the fence. I was involved in a therapy group at that point and had a lot of uneasy feelings about being in a group with Fritz and Steve. I’d had uncomfortable feelings over the years that Fritz, when he wanted to, used me in some way to get close to Steve. After that nice weekend we had, there was a little bit of letter-writing back and forth. That’s what did it. He kept writing, ‘Come to Esalen and participate in some of my training sessions.’
“I was in group therapy as part of my training and in touch with some hostility toward Fritz as it related to my relationship with Steve. I was able to see how Fritz, because he was not a warm father, indirectly made it hard for Steve to be that. Now it seems like nonsense. But at that point, I was feeling angry with Fritz. And he was sending these letters, ‘Come participate in a workshop. I want you to experience my training. I have things to offer you both in training.’
“I was getting madder and madder, and wrote back on my own, ‘I would love to come and visit you at Esalen to spend some time with you, but I don’t want to be in your training workshop with Steve. If Steve chooses to go, fine. But I’m not going to.’ He must have gotten the letter and immediately phoned. He was livid on the telephone. ‘I’m sending someone to the airport to fetch you and bring you out to Mill Valley.’
“I said, ‘Nobody’s going to come and fetch me. I’m not coming to your workshop in Mill Valley. I’m tired. I’ve been working hard. I’ve been in a heavy group therapy thing. This is not what I need right now. I would very much like to see you and share some of the experiences I’m having and just visit with you. Where will you be staying so when we get into San Francisco we can contact you?’
“He wouldn’t tell me. ‘Well, where are you staying?’ I told him where. But he wouldn’t accept it. He kept on with me on the phone. Then he said to me, ‘Stop getting hysterical.’ I said, ‘I’m not hysterical. I just told you where I stand. I don’t need this and I don’t want it,’ and I repeated my story very clearly as to why I wasn’t going to participate. And he said, ‘But Steve will come.’ I said, ‘I don’t speak for Steve. The last Steve said was that he was tired and wanted to take those two days in San Francisco and just wander about the city and relax. But he’s free to come.’
“Then he really laid it on me. ‘You’re really getting controlling and manipulating,’ and he got very excited. I said, ‘Cut it out. I’m not doing a damn thing except going to San Francisco for a few days and relax and wander about the city. Maybe you’d better talk to Steve later yourself, since we’re not apparently communicating very well.’ ‘I’ll call Steve later,’ he said sternly. Clunk. And he did. He called Steve later in the evening and Steve said, ‘No.’ He really didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to be in that Mill Valley training group where Fritz was the leader. He told him, ‘I just don’t feel comfortable about it. I want to see you and spend some time with you, but I don’t want to be your son in your therapy group. I just don’t want to do it.’ Fritz was angry with him, too, but didn’t get as nasty with him as he was with me. Steve asked again, where he’d be staying so we could get a hold of him, and Fritz refused to tell him.
“We finally hit San Francisco, sat around, and did our thing. Fritz called on a Sunday night. He would not make any time available when he could get together with us and kept putting Steve off on the phone. This went on for the entire week we were there. He’d call and repeatedly ask, ‘You will be there for the big session with Ellis and Bach [an APA panel that he was on with psychologists Albert Ellis and George Bach]? Each time, Steve said, ‘Yes. We’ll be there.’ And we were part of a mob of four hundred people squashed into this room. Afterwards we tried to get to him to say hello, but there were these mobs of people lined up to touch him and shake his hand. I went over to stand in line, but Steve got very angry. ‘Damn if I’m going to stand in line to shake my father’s hand. I’m going.’ And I wasn’t keen to stand in line to shake his hand either. So we left.
“I remember being sad about it, that this was the way we had to see him. I felt badly for Steve, too. That you had to fight the crowd to see your own dad. Fritz called us the next night, right before we were leaving, and asked, ‘Have you been there?’ Steve said, ‘Sure we were there. We tried to get you but there were all those people. Can we get together tonight? We’re due to leave tomorrow.’ But, ‘Oh . . . no.’ Again, he put him off. That’s when he mentioned again, ‘You will be at the birthday party before you leave Saturday.’ And Steve said ‘No. We’re leaving Saturday afternoon. I told you that months ago. We’re not staying for the birthday party,’ and explained why. And that was all ‘Good-bye.’”
“On his seventy-fifth birthday memorial dinner,” Alan Watts recalled, “we had this great, gorgeous gathering. He was looking like the Lord God Almighty, Jehovah, and wearing a beautiful colorful shirt with a necklace. I said, when asked to make some remarks in his honor, that ‘everybody knows that the idea of God the Father is a Jewish tradition. But we are finally very happy to note that he has a twinkle in his eye.”
There were no good feelings left between Fritz and his son, however, who never again saw his father alive.
How was Steve to know that Fritz had gleefully told a number of his friends that Steve would be attending a group of his in Mill Valley; that this gruff autocrat delighted in thinking about showing off his skills to his son, that being in a group with Steve would symbolize, to Fritz, an ever-greater closeness?
How was Fritz to know that his apparently self-sufficient, detached, undemanding son was hurt by not being offered a more private manifestation of closeness?
And so, there was a Mexican standoff—each man too proud to take the first or second step.
The similarities between Fritz’s situation and that of his despised father, Nathan Perls, went full circle. Each achieved a reputation as a slob, a lech, a hater of children, of being tight-fisted, of loving center stage, and of tooting his own horn (Fritz would often describe himself as a “genius”).
Each man was a wanderer who became progressively alienated from his wife and children and reaped, for his absences and unavailability, a harvest of scorn or indifference from his family.
Each, outside of his home, found willing admirers who appreciated his charisma and Rabelaisian lifestyle.
Steve, like Fritz, grew up on his own, independently of both his parents. Like Fritz, he never talks about them and has truly carved out a life in which they have never figured. Ren, like Else, developed a very clinging relationship to her mother.
A Joni Mitchell song “Clouds” contains a line that captures
Fritz’s existential dilemma: “Something’s lost and something’s gained from living every day.”
What Fritz gained by living each day anew was the ability to extract whatever possibilities for people, excitement, or adventure existed at the moment. What he lost was the continuity of experiences, of close family relationships and enduring friendships. This, too, was a need that he had and tried to satisfy, in wistful, small doses, with the Freys and the Simkins, and, later, by creating his own family at Cowichan.
There is an anecdote permeated with loneliness and unexpressed desire that Laura tells regarding Fritz’s father, whom Fritz avoided during the years that Laura knew the two men. Emotionally speaking, it appears to mirror Fritz’s feelings for his children.
“When I was going out to take the baby Ren in the park, suddenly Nathan would turn up, look for a moment into the pram, say something half-embarrassed to the baby, and then go.”
And how would his children like to see their father described in my book? Steve Perls echoed Renate when he put it this way: “I would like the world to think of him as a brilliant, creative, insightful person—a little crazy—who managed to work his way into many people’s lives in a very constructive way. And that’s fine. I think that’s what’s happening how. I would not want the world to get the feeling that he was an ideal person.
“The whole approach that he had of getting people to be liberated and free and open works, to a certain extent. But I still feel there is something about family, about commitment, about involvement. Without it, people just go drifting around. He did. He went drifting around. I don’t think that’s necessarily bad, but there are just lots of good feelings you can get from being with people and growing with each other and helping each other—not necessarily depending on each other, but sometimes that’s okay, too.”
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