20 Years Gone

Twenty years ago today, I went golfing at Highland Hills Golf Course with my then-stepson, Dave. I returned home to a message on the answering machine from Jackie informing me that Dad had died. He was a little more than a month away from his 70th birthday and much too young. But it was expected news as I'd just been up to visit him in Michigan's Upper Peninsula a few days earlier, quite certain that it would be the last time I'd see him. He hadn't been well for years, with most of his health problems related to emphysema brought on by years of smoking both unfiltered and filtered cigarettes: Lucky Strike and then Winston.

He was happiest when he was either out in the garage or down in the basement tinkering on whatever project he had in front of him. I can still recall the days before Super Glue when he'd heat a fork or knife over a flame on the stove and use it to melt/weld broken plastic parts together for us.

Of all of us six siblings, I think it was Jackie who was closest to him. Although he and I were a lot alike, we never had much of a relationship. When I was growing up, he never seemed to make an effort to get into my head. I wish he had been able to because I had so much going on in there, but I never felt comfortable approaching him about any of it. He was on the road too much for having six kids at home, but I had no way of realizing what I was missing out on then. He wasn't all that different than a lot of other dads in that regard. There were key times in my life, though, when in his own way he would come alongside me and convey a message I needed to hear.

There was the time when my older sister was in the hospital recovering from surgery for melanoma. I was standing on the stairs leading up from the basement while he sat in a chair, a cigarette in hand, watching TV. He asked if I knew anything about the girl sharing a room with Claudia in the hospital. I told him I didn't. He proceeded to tell me that she'd been abusing amphetamines for years and now she was having severe issues with her spine. I don't know if what he told me was true or if it even made medical sense, but it was abundantly clear to me that he was wise to my own abuse of the same drug that I'd been dabbling with way too much for the past several months. He wasn't accusing me of anything, but I got the message. I remember feeling disappointed with myself for having let him down.

His was a difficult childhood. He had very few memories of his father because he died when my dad was only 3 or 4. His mother took in roomers to make ends meet and would later marry a man named Sid. Tragically, Sid took his own life, and my father was the one who found his body in a shed adjacent to their duplex. My dad's mother would die from a botched hysterectomy when he was nine. He was then raised by his older sister and her alcoholic husband. An unimaginable childhood for me, for someone so young and impressionable as my father was.

He was raised Catholic, and although he had mostly uncomplimentary things to say about the Catholic school he attended (most of his scorn was for the nuns who were unnecessarily harsh), he carried a photograph of a man named Father Quility (from the school) in his wallet for the rest of his life.

Despite all that my dad endured before leaving home, he did very well for himself once he was out on his own. He joined the Canadian Navy and worked as a radarman, the same job I would have when I joined the Navy, though I had no idea it was his job until it became mine, too.

He was a financial manager for Control Data for most of his career and was apparently good at what he did, based on the many awards he received over the years. For years, I had the impression that he was conservative politically, but I honestly don't know. I tuned in the Rush Limbaugh show for him once when we were driving, but I got a sense very quickly that he wasn't impressed. He had much disdain for all politicians and religious leaders. I can't say I blame him.

He would say that meeting my mom was the best thing that ever happened to him, and I'm sure it was. I can think of only one time in my youth when I knew they were in a disagreement about something and for a day or two there was tension between them. One time. I'm sure there were others, but they hid them well from us if there were. (That harmony, though, suffered greatly in later years as alcohol took over and made a mess of things.)

They had a routine where, after my dad got home from work and before dinner, he and my mom would sit in the front room with a drink and talk about the day. For maybe an hour, my dad would fill her in on all of the office politics or whatever it was they talked about, and we kids knew not to bother them. After dinner, he would retreat to the seclusion of his basement work area or out in the garage and his workbench there. Compared to his childhood, I'm sure he felt that he had created a safe and comfortable place for my siblings and me to flourish, and for the most part, he had.

His job took him out east to Pennsylvania during Christmas break, 1974, when I was a senior in high school. I was given the option to stay behind in an apartment with my older sister and finish school. It was a gutsy decision on his part because I'd given him no reason to believe I wouldn't soon fall flat on my face. I remember walking out of the apartment with my parents and Keith and Tim as they were leaving. My dad, in a somewhat loud voice, was telling me, as he walked down the stairs with me standing above, that I was a man now and not to let him down.

I don't think I have.