Father's Day and My Pop

I realize that not everyone shares my attitudes, but I would imagine most people who have lost their parents find the following days somewhat difficult:  Christmas, Thanksgiving, Mother's Day and Father's Day.  The truth is that, since my parents have passed on, I find many more days difficult, because it seems impossible to get through an entire day without recalling, sometimes quite painfully and emotionally, the fact that they are no longer here.  Perhaps that's because we are taught to believe that, with the passage of time, naturally comes the passage of grief; only to find that while the grief takes on a different character, it never really goes away.  Or maybe this is the lot of children who don't have spouses or children of their own to turn to, since, in losing parents, we also lose what we always have referred to as our "home".  Instead of "going home to Grand Rapids," my home has become a rented apartment in Mishawaka, and it's a very poor substitute.  I can only speak to my own experience about this, but it really seems to be true that one's home is where one's family is.

Father's Day is upon us, and I find myself wishing I had before me the task of shopping for a card and a present for my own father.  It was never hard to buy something for dad.  What he really coveted was my Notre Dame key chain, which was a gift from Lou Holtz and had his signature engraved on it.  (Oddly, I lost track of that key chain around the time my father passed away, and, I must admit, I am suspicious of foul play--he was always lifting it from my keyring).  After I took my job at Notre Dame, my dad became a huge fan of the team, but more than that, of Lou Holtz.  As was typical of my father, he would never admit to it, and was always dissing Lou and the Irish.  That was just his way though--he never meant it.  Growing up, we had a dog whom I adored, and dad was always calling him names (some real bad and naughty names!) and acting as if he didn't like the dog, but it was all in jest, because I think my father cried the hardest when Tuffy died.  The day the Irish Football team lost to Boston College, a mere week after beating Florida State and rising to number one in the polls, I realized how much my dad loved the Fightin' Irish.  My parents came down for the game, and, afterwards, the mood in my rooms at Breen Phillips Hall was funereal--or worse, if there is such a thing.  Nothing would cheer him up.  I don't know if I ever saw him so depressed.  He was beyond all consolation and I found myself feeling more miserable about my father's reaction than about that horrific loss.

Because I knew he secretly loved the Irish, for Father's Day, I usually gave him some Notre Dame memorabilia.  The sweatshirt he has on in the above photo is one such example.  And he always wore them.  He never wore the tie I gave him, but that's because he possessed really great taste in clothes and shoes, and, when I purchased that tie, I was far too young to have any taste.  I'm relatively certain that it must have been hideous and incredibly cheap.  Even though my father was kind and generous, especially with me, there were just some things he couldn't do, and wearing a tacky and ugly piece of clothing was probably beyond his sartorial ethic.

My father handed down several things to his youngest child and only daughter:  a love of dogs, a love of the crap table, a love of beer and scotch, a strong desire and penchant to spend beyond my means, and a fondness for "colorful" language, oh, and my life's motto:  "just have fun".  I think I also inherited his somewhat sudden temper and his dysplastic hips.  Dad was a bit of a rogue, all the more reason for me to look up to him.  My mother would often say, with a sigh, "You're just like your father."  This was usually after admitting to having lost the rent money at the crap table in Laughlin, or after watching me come home with a six pack of some premium beer, popping the cap on one, and announcing "it has to be noon somewhere."  This, by far, is the favorite phrase I inherited from my father.  I saw a t-shirt like that a few weeks back.  I wish I had purchased it.

Truthfully, there was much to admire about dad.  He was a self-made man.  He never graduated from high school, yet he taught himself an amazing amount, especially about do-it-yourself home repair.  I don't know that he ever, ever called in a pro. Dad taught himself how to wallpaper, and, in his first such project, employed much of that colorful language I referred to earlier.  The problem was that he was a perfectionist.  You would never see a ragged edge or a crooked line.  When he was finished, after much cursing, it was done perfectly and beautifully.  In an odd way, despite his lack of patience, he was patient.  He stuck with it until it was done right.  I did NOT inherit any patience whatsoever from either him or my mother.

I remember well the time he decided that my mother spent too much time in the kitchen; so he purchased a dishwasher for the house and opted to install it himself.  This was before the time that dishwashers were standard equipment in most kitchens.  Again, the house was filled with a lot of interesting words--some were actually new to me.  But, he never gave up and, in the end, the dishwasher was installed properly; however, it took him awhile to convince my mother she had to use it.  She was worried about wasting hot water.  After his trying ordeal of installing it, he was a bit more than exasperated with this attitude, and finally convinced mom to make the dishwasher a part of her life, although she insisted on pretty much hand washing the dishes before she placed them into the newly installed machine.  Dad painted like a pro too, and, when he ran out of things to do in the house, cleaned out the closets and painted the insides of them.  Plumbing was a snap for him, and I don't think he liked anything as much as going to the hardware store.  Impressively, he learned all about electrical wiring, and seemed to go about it properly and safely.  But, I think what my father was most known for was his perfectly manicured lawn.

We had the greenest, most pristine, lushest lawn on the street--complete with a very expensive automatic underground sprinkling system.  When giving directions to friends, I would often tell them that we lived in the house with the gorgeous yard and they had no problem finding it.  Dad got into mowing it in a crisscross pattern, making it look so soft and beautiful that you would want to go and lay down on it.  That was probably not allowed, but nevertheless, the temptation was there.  I remember the day his beloved Golden Retriever, Bumper, went out into the front yard and urinated on the grass.  I thought my father was going to have a stroke.  He became apoplectic.  He wasn't actually yelling at Bumper, because he was too stunned to accept that anyone, even a dog, could defile his yard.  He ran to get the hose and washed it down immediately, and more thoroughly than probably was necessary.  He then taught Bumper to never do that again; and, I might add, he was successful in that.  Bumper was devoted to Dad, and seemed to know what he was saying.  Crazy, I know, but the dog knew to go only in the back yard after that.  We kids, of course, never dared go potty on the lawn.

When I think of my dad, or "Pop" as I called him, I remember him as being  very cool.  I probably am revealing no secret when I say that I think I may have been dad's favorite.  I inherited that title merely by being the only girl.  Dad was of the old school, and, in his view, the girl needed more care and attention than the boys.   Therefore, he never left me without stuffing money in my hand.  We went to some pretty swanky places to eat when I was in college, and they were living in New Orleans--he would meet me in the French Quarter and we would go eat at Brennan's or, on occasion, Ruth's Chris, or we'd go to Acme's for several  dozen oysters, and then he would order me "Don't tell your mother."  This is because all of these places had too high a price tag, but (see above) that didn't stop dad from going, and I was certainly happy to tag along.  He had great taste in everything, and certainly loved fine dining.  And now, so do I.

My dad used to like to drive to Detroit on occasion to go to the horse races during the summer--DRC or Hazel Park, and I never turned down an opportunity to go with him.  I learned quite a bit about horse racing, odds and jockeys back in those days, and was instructed about his firm belief to "never bet the gray horse".  It seemed silly and superstitious to me, and, therefore, I always betted the gray horse.  And I always lost.  Still do.  Fortunately, while I do enjoy horse racing, I didn't take to it as I did to the crap table.  Dad's advice on the crap table:  when the dice go cold, walk away.  It doesn't seem logical to me that dice can go cold, and often, I ignore that advice, which causes me to lose my rent money at the crap table (see above).

I had a lot of fun with my dad, and have not really met anyone else with whom I can share my appreciation for some of things mentioned here in this blog.  He was gruff, but funny, and, really, his gruffness was just a front.  In retirement, he ended up driving a school bus for kids.  The kids loved him, as they could see through that tough exterior in an instant.  The truth is, especially in his later years, he would go to extremes to help us out if we needed it.  It was a very different relationship than the one I had with mom.  With mom, you always knew what she thought--she said it.  If she didn't like what you were doing, she told you, and there seemed to be much to dislike about some of my behavior, especially regarding the frivolous expenditure of money.  I teased her about nagging--but she was just being a mother.  My father was often silent in such discussions.  He certainly had opinions about the decisions we made as adults, but he took the tack that, in the end, we had to make our own decisions, and he didn't think it was right to meddle.  On the few occasions where he would express an opinion, one would definitely take note.

He was, without a doubt though, the disciplinarian in the house.  "Wait until you father comes home" was not a phrase restricted to television sitcoms of the day.  I heard it in our house, a bit too often for my tastes.  After my mother discovered whatever dastardly deed we had committed, she would utter that phrase, striking fear in my little young heart.  Dad had a trick that instilled absolute terror in me and, I suspect, my brothers.  After arriving home and being told the horrific tales of our childhood misbehaviors, he would start up the steps (our bedrooms were upstairs), and, removing his belt, would actually snap it.  With each snap of that belt, getting closer and closer, my heart would beat faster, and the tremors would begin. Clever child that I was, I always hid in the same place--under my bed.  Dad was smart, but really, did one need to be a genius in order to find me?  At any rate, I was never injured but I think the tactic was quite successful in making me reflect upon my bad behavior.

It is interesting that, in these blogs, I appear to have sanctified my mother (who truly was a saint) and painted my father as somewhat less than saintly.  Well, dad wasn't exactly a saint, but my mother did, in later years, lead him into the light.  But he was, in fact, a very good man who taught me a lot about life (and playing craps) and, in my opinion, was also a very good father to me.  Mom was the sensitive parent.  She was patient, kind, and almost never raised her voice.  Dad was the stern one, and while he wasn't really very patient and had no concerns about raising his voice, especially when we were young, he was kind.  He helped me out of more jams that I care to count.  He helped me buy my first (and second and third) cars, and assisted me through some very major decisions with his quiet reason during my young adult life.  The times I had my minor surgeries--knee and tonsils (hey, I had them taken out as an adult, and it really hurt) he was there for me--in New Orleans and South Bend respectively.  And, I remember him well during my childhood illnesses.  One of my earliest memories of him centers around a time I was sick in bed, probably with the flu. Dad came home from work that day, bringing me the book Puss and Boots and a big bottle of Tahitian Treat.  To this day, that is my favorite childhood book--which I made him read me numerous times, until I could recite it too, even though I could not yet read.  And, despite the calories and sugar, I would love to down a big glass of Tahitian Treat for old time's sake.  The first time he brought it to me, it seemed so exotic.  I have not had it for years, but I will still say it's my favorite soft drink, and whenever I see it on the store shelves, I am filled with a very deep and bittersweet sense of nostalgia.  My parents, with their varying strengths and differences, complimented each other quite well, and I was grateful he was my dad.  I miss him very much.

So today, on Father's Day, I find myself wishing that I could somehow reach out to him, send him a silly card and a gift--even if it be an ugly tie, and wish him a happy day.  To those of you fortunate enough to still have your father, make sure you contact him.  Believe me, when he is gone, you will wish you had spent more time with him, and, of course, it is time that you cannot ever recapture.  I never realized, when he was here with me, how deeply I would be affected by the void created by his departure.

Happy Father's Day Pop.