Memories of my dad on his birthday
My dad passed away in May of 1990 at the way too young age of 66, two years younger than I am right now. It's an odd concept, being older than your father ever will be. A sobering reminder of my own mortality. He always seemed so much more mature, so much more adult than I have ever been.
He grew up in rural Arkansas where he and his sister and their friends ran wild as only small town kids in the 20's and 30's could. There is a rare school year photo of him and his classmates, all sitting lined up as classes do, the back row bookended by teachers. All of the kids are barefoot, except for my dad, front and center wearing shoes. When I first saw this picture, I was insanely jealous. I loved running barefoot in the summers, gradually toughening up my feet so that I could eventually stand in the burning hot asphalt street, but I never got to go barefoot to school! My dad always wore shoes because no son of my grandmother was ever going to go to school barefoot like a hooligan.
My dad was an infrequent but wonderful story teller. One of my favorites was about the time he and his older sister scraped together 25 cents each to see the brand new Frankenstein movie showing at the theater in their little town. They had never seen anything like it and ran all the way home, holding hands, scared out of their minds that the monster in the movie was lurking behind the next tree. When telling that story Dad made it sound so vivid, as he recounted how dark and creepy the woods were and how his sister was so much faster than him that she was practically dragging him as he struggled to keep pace, worried that if he fell she would leave him behind with the monster that was surely running after them.
My dad was a handy guy to have around. He could fix just about anything from plumbing to electrical. He was the go-to guy in the family who, even if he had no idea what the problem was, would "take a look at it". Nine times out of ten he could fix it. A civil engineer both by training and natural talent, he was the most intuitive mathematician I have ever known and surprisingly, zero help with homework. I remember sitting at the kitchen table one evening, struggling with an algebra problem. He sat down across from me and asked if he could help. I told him I couldn't find the answer to a problem and after barely giving it a glance, upside down at that, gave me the answer. "How did you figure that out?" I asked. He just looked at me blankly. "I have to show the steps to the right answer," I explained. "What steps did you use?" "Why do you mean, steps?" he asked. "It's the right answer." "Yeah, but how did you know it was the right answer?" "Because it is. Do you want me to show you on the slide rule?" "We don't use slide rules any more." "Ah, well maybe that's the problem." See what I mean? Zero help.
My dad had a nephew, born when he was a teenager. Jim has memories of my dad building him a sandbox, taking him for a ride in the car to get a soda pop at the gas station, teaching him to throw a football, swing a bat and wield a hammer, things my dad eventually would do many years later for me and my brother. There is a kind of comfort of continuity knowing he was always that guy, the one who never tired of answering questions, who played catch for hours, who never got annoyed at kid noise. The one who had endless patience and no temper to speak of. Later, with his 5 grandchildren, he continued that same calm and quiet behavior. He was the one who distracted my little daughter from crying by putting a marshmallow in each tiny hand, because who can cry holding two marshmallows? As a young mother I loved having him go to the mall with us. He didn't care about going into any of the stores, but instead would sit for hours with the little ones, entertaining them with silly nonsense like picking up the receiver of a pay phone and asking them if they could hear anyone on the other end. He loved technology, and while he died well before smart phones, I can just imagine the kids' games his phone would have been full of.
My dad loved baseball. He was right handed, but played sports as a lefty and was a wicked fast pitcher. Having played semi pro fast pitch softball as a young man, he was a sure bet to win me any stuffed animal I wanted at the county fair by knocking down the pyramid of metal milk bottles. Knocking down is actually too tame an expression. He would pick up the ball, toss it once in the air, then without using any part of his body except his arm, fling the ball in a sidearm throw at the target so quickly and with such force that the guy working the booth would sometimes have to duck out the way of the flying milk bottles. My church had a softball team and the other teams used to groan when my dad took the mound. In truth he took it pretty easy on most of the batters, only occasionally burning one over the plate. My cousin, Jim, stepped in as a catcher one game and says he still recalls how he had to ice his catching hand after my dad warmed up. He was scouted by more than one major league team while in high school, but my dad had little interest in playing baseball as his job, it was strictly a game to him, one he loved, a love that would last throughout his life. He was a project manager during the building of Dodger Stadium and I grew up going to Dodger games, where his company had box seats.
My dad loved coffee so strong it could stand on its own, vanilla ice cream cones, golfing, Donald Duck comic books, college football and western art. And my mom. Boy, did he love my mom. One of the last things he said to me as cancer slowly pulled him away from us, was "Take care of her for me". I am, Dad. I am.
My dad had a nephew, born when he was a teenager. Jim has memories of my dad building him a sandbox, taking him for a ride in the car to get a soda pop at the gas station, teaching him to throw a football, swing a bat and wield a hammer, things my dad eventually would do many years later for me and my brother. There is a kind of comfort of continuity knowing he was always that guy, the one who never tired of answering questions, who played catch for hours, who never got annoyed at kid noise. The one who had endless patience and no temper to speak of. Later, with his 5 grandchildren, he continued that same calm and quiet behavior. He was the one who distracted my little daughter from crying by putting a marshmallow in each tiny hand, because who can cry holding two marshmallows? As a young mother I loved having him go to the mall with us. He didn't care about going into any of the stores, but instead would sit for hours with the little ones, entertaining them with silly nonsense like picking up the receiver of a pay phone and asking them if they could hear anyone on the other end. He loved technology, and while he died well before smart phones, I can just imagine the kids' games his phone would have been full of.
My dad loved baseball. He was right handed, but played sports as a lefty and was a wicked fast pitcher. Having played semi pro fast pitch softball as a young man, he was a sure bet to win me any stuffed animal I wanted at the county fair by knocking down the pyramid of metal milk bottles. Knocking down is actually too tame an expression. He would pick up the ball, toss it once in the air, then without using any part of his body except his arm, fling the ball in a sidearm throw at the target so quickly and with such force that the guy working the booth would sometimes have to duck out the way of the flying milk bottles. My church had a softball team and the other teams used to groan when my dad took the mound. In truth he took it pretty easy on most of the batters, only occasionally burning one over the plate. My cousin, Jim, stepped in as a catcher one game and says he still recalls how he had to ice his catching hand after my dad warmed up. He was scouted by more than one major league team while in high school, but my dad had little interest in playing baseball as his job, it was strictly a game to him, one he loved, a love that would last throughout his life. He was a project manager during the building of Dodger Stadium and I grew up going to Dodger games, where his company had box seats.
My dad loved coffee so strong it could stand on its own, vanilla ice cream cones, golfing, Donald Duck comic books, college football and western art. And my mom. Boy, did he love my mom. One of the last things he said to me as cancer slowly pulled him away from us, was "Take care of her for me". I am, Dad. I am.
My Dad (on the right) with my mom and a friend, dining at the Empire State Building - 1951
