My dad was a hard-working, unsophisticated sort of guy. He grew up on a dairy farm in upstate New York. His parents were Russian and Polish immigrants who worked hard and raised seven children. My grandfather also drove a cement truck to supplement their income.
Dad told us about walking five miles to the one-room schoolhouse, something I enjoyed hearing about but seriously doubted until we visited the farm in the late '80s. Someone else owned it by then, but we did take the time to check the odometer on the drive to the school. Yes, it was five miles. And, yes, it was small enough to have been a one-room schoolhouse.
Dad told about how he had an upper front tooth knocked out by a teacher who slapped him on the head after blaming him for wetting the outhouse seat. He said his face hit the side of the desk and the tooth broke. He also said that he didn't do it.
Dad loved baseball and used to play in high school. Pitcher, I think, until he broke his arm and the country doc didn't set it straight. When I saw him use a typewriter in his adult years, his right elbow stuck way out because of that. He played pick-up games with his Navy buddies when I was a little kid back in Portsmouth, Virginia. He's the one who loved baseball, was a die-hard Yankee fan, and had the game on each weekend during the summer. With him, I watched some of the greats play those televised games, and saw Roger Maris hit his 61st homer in '61.
I also remember going on the USS Missouri when I was a little kid. Dad was gone most of the early '50s on the Mighty Mo, off to bomb Pusan Harbor 14 times, and who knows what else. When in port, families were invited aboard for holiday parties. We got to go below deck for a Christmas party, complete with a Santa Claus and gifts, and once for Thanksgiving.
There was a band at one of these events and Dad said he was going to surprise Mom by playing his trumpet for her. The song was Ay, Ay, Ay, Dolores—her name. He lost his nerve, but I always thought it was a romantic idea. When I was five or six, I sat on the bell of his trumpet because it looked like the perfect size for my backside. I crumpled the bell a bit, but never heard a word about it or got punished. After Dad passed and we had to sort through what was stored in the garage, the trumpet was never found, along with many other family artifacts from long ago. Mom had passed eight years earlier and I supposed that she might have gotten rid of things before her death, but I have my suspicions otherwise that maybe one of my brothers, one who fell in with the wrong crowd, sold it for his own benefit. Just a hunch....
When I was about six years old, I caught poliomyelitis and was admitted to the St Mary's Polio Hospital in Portsmouth. At that time, Dad was stationed in Gitmo, as it's called: Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. From what Mom told me in later years, a Red Cross message got to him, telling him his little girl was in an iron lung. They flew him home immediately. Mom says he was a wreck when he got home. To make it worse, visitors were not allowed in the ward, so he came to the hospital as soon as he could and had to stand outside my window. I had been given the Salk vaccine (not be officially released for another year or so), so I was doing just fine by then, bouncing on my bed by the window, smiling and waving back at him while he stood outside, looking up at me, crying while trying to keep a smile going. I have two fabulous children of my own and can imagine the heartbreak he was going through at that time. A father's love....
I was looking for the WD40 the other day to de-squeak a hinge and remembered Dad using axel grease on our bike gears and chains so they wouldn't rust. He greased moving parts on his clippers, his lawn mower, our merry-go-'round, etc. He spent hours out back some weekends in his shed or on the patio with parts all around. Does anyone do that any more? Or is non-rusting metal the norm?
Dad was the fix-it guy for just about anything. A marine electrician by training, anything electrical was game for him. As he worked out some equations for his ship-board wiring project, I was surprised that he, who did not graduate high school, was using very complicated mathematics! Ohms and voltage and amps and resistance. All beyond me at that time, but I guess I inherited his match acumen since I became good at math myself and majored in it in college.
He fixed other problems around home, too, like clogged plumbing. He'd even crawl under the house amidst the general debris, spider webs, and occasional dead creature that accumulated down there. I thought he was too brave.
Every summer, he planted a garden in our back yard. I'm sure this sprang from his farm upbringing; but Dad liked to stay busy. We loved the lettuce, radishes, cucumbers, peas, scallions, carrots, squash, melons ... whatever he planted. Besides, all that produce helped with the food bills.
Once in awhile, Dad would treat himself to some special item. One was buttermilk. He would buy only a quart since he was the only one who would drink it. He shook it up, then poured out one big glass, drank it down, then poured out the rest and drank it down. The other treat was a kielbasa sausage. He would boil the whole thing, two conjoined links, each about eight inches long, and eat chunks of it with mustard. If we were lucky enough to be around, he'd share it with us. Yum!
I missed my Dad a lot as I grew up. First, he was away because of the Navy, then he seemed to distance himself as more brothers were born after me, five in all plus my sister, and he probably didn't know how to relate to me as I grew up to be a young woman. I think he felt awkward around me, but I know he was proud of me.
This came to light when he and Mom made their solo appearance at a huge night club where my rock band was playing. I came to their table during the first break, to the very back of this huge club where they had to sit to tolerate the volume, and saw Dad with tears in his eyes. Mom looked up at me and said, "He thinks you're good enough to be on Lawrence Welk." High praise, indeed, from my Dad. The Lawrence Welk Show was probably the only other show he watched other than baseball.
Oh, I know Dad liked his beer and spent lots of time with the boys after work at the local bar, but he took care of us, always worked like a dog, took care of our home, sat in the pool with us every summer, grilled pork steaks like nobody else, and was there for the major events in our lives. He was 'old school' and didn't know how to express his feelings, so he held them in. I, unfortunately, did the same, but not well enough. When Mom was dying from her brain tumor, after years of headaches that dad got tired of hearing about, I remarked to him, "Well, you always said it was all in her head, and you were right. Are you happy now?"
I immediately wanted to disappear. I wished I didn't exist; that that moment hadn't happened. But all I could do was turn and walk away, leaving him sitting there alone. I never apologized. Talk about regrets.
I know Father's Day was last month, but I wanted to post all of this. It cannot change the past, but can serve to stir reflection and growth. I really love my Dad and miss him. He was a wonderful man with a great sense of humor and a distinctive laugh who always did his best through thick or thin. I keep him with me, in my thoughts, hoping I can still make him proud—like my singing did that night....
And, Dad, I'm so very sorry for that miserable remark I made so many years ago. You certainly didn't deserve that.
I love you!
