My mom was combative, politically opinionated, a 5′ 1″ ball of fire.
My dad? Polar opposite. He had a quiet power.
As a child, I’d watch the clock. Every single day, he’d pull up the driveway at 5:00 in his ratty car–he always got the old car and my mom the new, because he drove to the steel mills in East Chicago, Ind. The pollution (pre-EPA) and rugged, rutted industrial roads near the mill were hell on cars. He barely was through the door before I was jumping on him, sometimes punching him playfully, draping myself on him, wanting him to play whatever it was I liked playing at the time. Or just rough-housing, all the while my mom telling me to calm down, dad not seeming to mind it.
The only time I remember my dad ever striking me outside of the playful rough-housing was after I made fun of the way a man talked to us while we were fishing once. It was hardly anything, really, just a quick snap that was enough to surprise the hell out of me. Mostly, I think, it was a reflex of disappointment, and the only time anything like that happened.
And because I loved my pop, I really hated disappointing him. When I was in high school back in the early 70s, I — like a lot of kids — discovered marijuana. And we inhaled. And we thought we were pretty clever in hiding it from our folks. One day, when I was in the basement doing my laundry, I was horrified to find my bag of the magic weed sitting neatly on top of the dryer, impossible to miss. I knew it was my dad’s work (my mom would have been screaming at the top of her lungs). I eventually went to my
dad, apologized, told him I wouldn’t do it again. And I didn’t (at least, not under mom and dad’s roof). It all happened without his so much as raising his voice.
I’m lucky to have vivid memories of him. And in my adulthood, I’ve learned others outside my immediate family do, too. Recently my cousin Linda–who lives in Southwestern Pennsylvania where my dad grew up and his siblings still lived–wrote about one of hers.
When I was 12, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had three major surgeries within six weeks. As a child, I had no idea what was happening. Your dad showed up at the hospital and took her hand and kneeled at her bedside. I can still hear her sobs. He came all the way from Illinois just to hold her hand. (She would recover and live to be 90 years old.) In a little girl’s eyes, your dad was my hero.
My dad was so consistently there that he was easy to take for granted. Which I largely did, I think, until my senior year in college when he suffered a near-fatal heart attack. I saw him diminished. I saw him afraid. And that was one whale of a rite of passage. Months later, after doctors judged him well enough to survive quadruple bypass surgery, I came home from the D.C. area where I’d landed a job. I saw him off to the OR, and was around for the first days of his recovery. It was the first time I felt like I was there for him.
That surgery bought him 10 more good years, and I thank my lucky stars for them. Because I had time to not take him for granted, and make him know how grateful I was (though he always fidgeted and appeared excruciatingly uncomfortable when I would tell him).
And he wasn’t done being there for me and for us. Our son Gus was born amid a good deal of difficulty and spent his first few weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit. I had to go back to work, but my dad — by then retired — came down to spend his days with Beth, getting her to the hospital for her own followup visits and to visit Gus together.
My pop with my son.
My father was there when the neonatologist gave Beth the news — the day before Gus was to come home — that Gus had a rare genetic anomaly that would leave him with lifetime disabilities. When I got home from work, my dad was in the kitchen, looking a little bewildered. He was typical for his generation in terms of his stoicism. He didn’t talk about his time in the service during WWII. Or about difficult stuff in general. But clearly something was up.
I found Beth in the bedroom, in the fetal position. And she told me the news.
Whatever my dad lacked in communicativeness was more than balanced by something very very important: He was there. He was powerless to change the reality about Gus. But he was there when we brought Gus home. And his being there made an enormous difference. He loved his grandson from the beginning, holding him, cooing to him. He brought a kind of beauty and normalcy in very difficult and abnormal circumstances. It helped get us through that early period, and he visited several more times to stay with us and help out with Gus.
We live in exaggerated, hyped up, polarized times. It’s easy to mistake flamboyance for substance, flash for character, noise for meaning. It’s tempting sometimes to try to do too much, when, really, the very best thing we can do for one another is just be there. Like my dad.
Loved your memories of your dad. I remember him as a nice, gentle, loving man. You were lucky to have him as your dad.
Yeah, I really was Cheryl. I’m glad you got to meet him.
Your dad is reflected in the son he raised. Happy fathers day Mike
Kathy! How are you? Where are you? Thanks, that’s the very best compliment.
Neale and I live in the city that’s on fire every summer – Colorado Springs. We are both fine and AnneMarie is in school at the U of M in Minneapolis. She is working at doggy day care this summer in the twin cities and then goes to Glascow to study abroad next semester. Neale is still with HP and I’m just a housewife with a horse. Hope you’re all well. Beth contacted us awhile back and put us on the blog reader list so now we get to keep up with you both in a back door stalker fashion. Cheers and have a great day.
What a lucky guy you are for having a real mensch of a father.
Yeah, he was a mensch. Thanks Judy.
This touched me deeply. My dad also said more with gestures than with words. And his gestures made all of us know how much he loved us. He passed away on Thursday at age 93. It’s a staggering loss.
Thanks, Deb, for the kind words, especially in these circumstances. I am so sorry to hear about your father. We’ll be thinking about you.
This one made me tear up.
Yeah, me too, Rick. It’s something–I’m sure you understand. It’s been more than 20 years and I don’t seem to miss him less, but more.
What a stunning and thoughtful portrayal. I can feel the love and compassion you shared. Absolutely beautiful.
Thanks Pick, and so happy you got to meet him and he got to meet you and that you were there for me and us (and brought that ham, you know what I’m talking about).
Nice. Says a lot about how you got to be the great dad you are. Happy Father’s Day.
Thanks Hank. Much appreciated.
Beautiful.
I can only hope to be remembered as fondly and deeply. Very nice tribute.
I suspect you will Dean, but don’t rush getting here, OK?
Some of us get lucky — a great dad, with great genes. He lived to 91. Hope you do the same.
This is absolutely beautiful. I am so happy that you shared my thoughts as well. I wrote them directly from my heart. Happy Father’s Day to you too, Mike. You are very much your dad’s son.
Thanks Linda. I try, but I think I swing and miss a lot.
I am more than eager to meet you Mike, I am deeply touched with the care you are giving Beth, now I know where it is coming from, your Dad. I’ll return to Chicago in July. Pls. give my best to Beth.
Thankyou mike I’m reading this sun morn Father’s Day. Very thought provoking! Happy Father’s Day.
Mike, That was a beautiful tribute to your Dad! Monna
Great tribute, Mike. Your dad was the best!
I think I’ve got a little something in my eye. Well done. Mike
Mike, I needed to hear those last two sentences today, and Beth, thank you for letting Mike be your guest author to write them.
Trust me: it’s my pleasure!
Mike, Loved reading about your dad and am sitting here with tears on my cheeks. You remind me of your description of him. happy fathers day.
Thanks Judy. See you soon!
Last four scentences, wow.
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