The Old Man

This is one of the few times I wish I had easy access to a scanner, because if I did I'd post a few shots of my dear old Dad-- the first love of my life, very best pal, partner in crime and the source of most of the recessive genes that I possess so proudly. Before I start into the panegyric that I would like to write (assuming my readership wants to read details about a man they've never met), I'll try to keep this tribute reasonably concise (no promises though).

Dad was one hell of a guy. I can't think of much better praise than that when you reach the end of your days. He was a consummate family man, a hard worker, had a sense of humor that confounded some but never failed to leave me holding my sides from laughing. Was he handsome? Not in a conventional way. He was tall, and bore the marks of working 25 years in a steel mill, but as far as conventional good looks go, the old man was not what anyone would call a "looker." He started going bald in his twenties, and grew a beard in his 30's-- both in response to the corresponding loss uptop and to cover a chin that wasn't much to mention. My mother tells me that when my great-grandmother was first introduced to Dad, her comment was, "Well... he sure is a TALL drink of water!"

Other than having baby-blue eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes (which my brother and I both inherited), dad's best physical attribute was his smile. And even that wasn't pretty (in the literal sense), because he'd needed extensive dental work over the course of his life and the result was a less-than-lovely set of capped teeth. Dad's smile was remarkable because it seemed to radiate from every pore-- eyes crinkled, dimples flared, and you never got the sense that he was being phony. Upon meeting strangers, he gave them a strong handshake and let them know he was pleased to meet them. But when he ran into good friends or family members, the wattage beaming off of his face was strong enough to light Paris. People couldn't help but to smile back when Dad was around, because they could feel the genuine warmth and sincerity he exuded.

Because Dad worked shifts at the mill, more often than not he was available to watch and care for me while my mom worked all day as a teacher. The result was that I became Dad's sidekick-- a Robin to his Batman, the Morocco Mole to his Secret Squirrel. He liked to bring the element of fun AND education to all our fieldtrips together. If he had to run around paying bills, he would explain the merits of staying on top of debt (guess I wasn't listening so well) while letting me be the one to hand over the payment to the water department clerk or the waitress in a restaurant.

Many people were surprised to learn that he had never completed college, because he was so well-versed on such a wide variety of subjects. The family called him Socrates behind his back, as he was a man who was never at a loss when he felt his children needed "a talking to" about a subject he felt was important. At times we would have to stifle yawns when Dad would get long-winded, but we listened anyhow.

Every day that he went to work, he always had some kind of reading material in his galvinized lunch bucket. A book of crossword puzzles, the Reader's Digest, something. When he finally had to retire from the mill because his cancer made the work too dangerous, he confessed that he'd often taken grief from co-workers for being such a bookworm. "Whazza matter, Tom," they'd say, "you too good to sit 'n' shoot the shit with us, man?" He'd only laugh and tell them he was trying not to let the mill rot his brains.

Dad's been gone for over thirteen years, and with each year the loss of him changes in size and power. Easier in some ways, gentler... But as I reach personal milestones I can't help but reflect upon where Dad was at my age. When he was 34, he had 2 small children, a wife & home, and a live-in mother-in-law. He worked 40 hours a week at a job he didn't particularly like, but he had a family to provide for and so exploring or "finding himself" wasn't part of his lexicon. But I'm grateful that I had him as long as I did, and I appreciate all the sacrifices that he made so that I would know all the comfort and happiness that was in his power to bestow.

On the night before he died, he and I were sitting on our front porch enjoying a beer and talking about everything and nothing. All at once he said to me, "You know what, honey? I'm finally not worried about you kids anymore." This statement seemed, at that moment, to come from left-field. Yes, Dad was getting in-home hospice care and we knew that his life was being counted in weeks and months instead of years by then. But he'd been feeling great that day, and so such a final comment caught me unprepared. He saw my confusion, and said, "Now, you-- you I always knew I could toss off the back end of a train and you'd hit the ground running. But your brother..." Here he paused, then continued, "He was always so quiet-- I never knew what was in his head, on his heart. I worried that he wasn't happy, wasn't ready to face life. But I don't anymore." He went on to say that, through the course of his illness, he'd had time to reflect upon this enigma who was his son. Dad had realized that the roots he'd given me were the same as those that he'd given my brother, but that we'd each blossomed and branched out in different ways. I was so much like Dad that he had no trouble figuring ME out-- quick-fire temper, rapid-fire mouth, always ready to laugh or fight with equal passion. My brother's temperament is more like my mother's. They are simmerers. They will let troubles simmer in them for days and weeks, until you're far removed from the incident that upset them to begin with, and then they will erupt in what seems like a spontaneous and unexpectedly erupting volcano. Dad was finally at peace with the idea that "Different is not WRONG-- it's JUST DIFFERENT."

In summary, Dad knew that parenting was about roots and wings: if you give your child a solid foundation and prepare them for the world, then the winds and tides that buffet them later become easier to withstand. I can still hear him saying, "Honey, smiles are free. They cost you nothing. But they might mean everything to the person you give one to!" So on the eve of my dear-old-dad's birthday, I charge you, dear readers, to go out tomorrow and give out some smiles. He was right, ya know. Smiles ARE free, we do burn calories creating them, and you never now if the person you're giving one to has received kindness fr another soul all day. Happy birthday, Daddy!om