Remembering Dad

REMEMBERING DAD

It’s very difficult for me to write about my father. I don’t remember him making a distinct impact on my life as a child or as a young adult. I can detail his face, though, and he always appeared small and slim in size. If I were looking at him today, I would say he was reasonably handsome with dark brown eyes and black thick wavy hair that was peppered with gray.

Sadly, I didn't see my dad all that often as a child and into my teens. The only times that I would see him were if I happened to be around when he arrived home from work or he would grace us with his presence at the dinner table. He would light up the evening by telling jokes and about things that happened on his job. My dad was a medic in the Army during WW1. Later on, he helped out in the Mess hall and, I believe, that's where he learned how to cook. I remember a large framed picture of him in his uniform that was on the wall in the basement.

Dad was a good provider, however meager. As far as I can remember, he never missed a day’s work at a large factory that processed cane sugar. He worked three shifts at the Sucrest Sugar Refinery plant, rotating them every two weeks. I guess that explains why I hadn’t seen him very much, except on his days off or for the holidays.

I do remember that when my mother was ill with heart problems during my early years, my father would pitch in to cook, clean the rooms, and bath the younger children in our kitchen sink, and this he would do after work. I enjoyed watching my mom and then my dad cook those wonderful and simple Italian meals. Many a time, I would implore my dad to let me help with the cooking, too. He was cooking for seven of us in the family, and I wanted to help. My first gourmet offering was macaroni and meatballs in tomato sauce, but I didn’t splash a bit of coffee into the sauce in order to thin it out as my father did. I was only 13 at the time and enjoyed watching my dad cook. No matter what technique he used, the meals were always delicious, and I benefited from his expertise.

During my mom's illness, I would sometimes accompany my dad to do the food shopping. We would take turns pulling a red wagon, which we had borrowed from one of my brothers to cart the packages back home. I remember one stormy day when I was in my middle teens that my dad had to go to work. I walked with him to the train station covering both of us with a large black umbrella. The wind was so fierce, and somehow I felt that we were holding each other up. I laughed when I returned home. The umbrella had turned inside out and the wind pushed me all the way back home. I remember saying to myself. “I got my dad safe and dry to the train station, but the good Lord helped me back home”. I was soaked, but I didn’t care.

I do recall some happy times when I was so proud of how popular my dad was to our relatives. He was always the center of attention at home parties and wedding receptions. I never knew him to drink alcohol during the day other than a medically prescribed glass of table wine during dinner. My mom said that he had developed low blood pressure, and the doctor said an occasionally glass of wine would be beneficial.

He was a good dancer and would always be on the dance floor at catered parties or weddings. You know, I never saw him dance with my mother, but I imagine it was because she would rather rest and talk with the other guests. It didn’t bother her at all. “As long as he was out of my hair,” she would laughingly say. I can remember a time as a teenager during a holiday affair when he was spraying seltzer at everybody in the room. He was in a jolly mood, a condition helped along by the few drinks he had while at the party. When there was no more seltzer to squirt or the seltzer bottle was taken from him, I remember that he never seemed to get angry. Still smiling, he would just open his arms and gather everyone together to do an Italian dance, such as the Tarantella. I was so proud of him because he was making everybody happy in that room, which of course was at our home. Our guests dodged his playful antics, but they loved every part of it, especially the dancing and I was overjoyed that I was sharing that happy time in my dad's life.

So time passed and I grew older along with my brothers and sister. One by one we found our mates and married. Father was not yet 65 years of age when we received a call from the factory that he had collapsed during his shift and passed on. It was a complete surprise to all of us because he was considered to be in reasonably good health. My mother was completely overwrought with grief. I confess I was more concerned about her than I was with the fact that my father had just died. Every time she wept, my heart hurt inside, and I struggled to keep my emotions hidden from the rest of the family. They say that time heals all wounds. Maybe so, but there is always that sorrow inside. It must have been overbearing for my mother. They both had plans for each other when my dad would retire from his job. My mom died 10 months later from her illness. I feel that her demise was pre-mature because her heart was broken when her husband was taken away from her. She lost her mate, her friend and the love of her life. I do wish I had gotten to know my dad better.

Written on May 31, 2003