Four Years Later

(That’s my Artsy-Fartsy sister Mary on the left, my dad in his Mohawks Jrs. alumni jersey, me in the white hat at the bottom of the photo, and mom with the popcorn.)

March 1: It’s been four years since my dad passed away and I still miss him. We all miss him. Watching the Olympics this year, especially with my dad being a hockey fan and former player of the game, and the U.S. playing Canada for the gold, I couldn’t help but think about the last afternoon I spent with dad before he died. 

It was Saturday, February 25, and mom had to run some errands. It was my turn to stick close to dad — all of us were taking turns sitting with him and my work schedule didn’t make it easy to get there on the weekdays. When I got there that afternoon, dad was sleeping. Mom instructed me to get him to drink a protein shake when he woke up and to check on him frequently. By this time, he was barely eating. Mom tried to hide her worry but her poker face needed some work. I peeked into the bedroom about 15 minutes later and he was still sleeping. The tv was on and the hockey semi-finals had just started. Surely the sound of bodies hitting the boards or the announcer yelling “SCORE!!!!!” would rouse dad once the game got going.

I waited in the living room for a bit, pretending to read but I couldn’t focus. A small part of me realized that dad was not going to be with us much longer but a much bigger part of me refused to admit it. This was my dad. That cancer was no match for someone as stubborn as him. At least that’s what I told myself — as they say, denial aint just a river in Egypt. I got one the shakes out of the fridge and poured it into a cup. When I took the shake in, dad was semi-watching the hockey semi-finals. The Winter Olympics were always a time when dad could get his hockey fix because my parents didn’t have cable and hockey games aren’t standard television fare in Cincinnati. I asked if he wanted something to drink and he said, “No. Just put it on the table.” I set it on the nightstand and then stood there. “Mom told me to make you drink a little bit.” He looked at me, semi-smiled, and then stuck out his tongue. “Ppphhhhttt,” he said. This was dad’s traditional, joking gesture when he knew mom’s advice was right but didn’t want to admit it. Yeah, there was a little bit of Archie and Edith Bunker in my mom and dad’s interactions. I laughed, thinking it was a good sign he still had a sense of humor.

I stared at the tv but I wasn’t really watching Sweden and the Czech Republic. Sweden was winning. Dad asked how the Girls were doing. I launched into a story about Macy.  She had been getting into our bedroom and wreaking havoc. For awhile, putting a laundry basket in front of the door worked. Then she started jumping over that and nosing the door open, which would then close behind her, leaving Alice alone in the hallway while Macy chewed through comforters or created other mischief. Our doors were old and had no locks on them so they were easy for Macy to nose open. Also, the old doorknobs didn’t work, and we only had one baby gate at the top of the steps to keep the dogs upstairs while we were gone. “We can’t gate every doorway,” I said.

Dad suggested an eyehook latch and I explained again that the doorknobs were super old and super not easy to replace, having no clue what an eyehook latch was. He told me he’d take a look at the doors when he felt better but until then I should get the eyehooks. He picked up the tv schedule next to his shake and asked me to get him a pen. Then he drew an eyehook, his hands shaking. “Get one of these,” he said, pointing to the drawing. “Put it on the outside of the door, up high enough so Crazy Eyes can’t paw at it.” That’s what he called Macy, for her one blue eye and one brown eye and her overabundance of energy. He took a sip of his drink and shut his eyes. I stood there for a bit longer, watching Sweden and the Czech Republic battle it out for the win. He fell asleep instantly; my lack of home improvement knowledge had exhausted him. I tip-toed out of the room, leaving the drawing behind. I remember standing at the door, thinking I should go back in and tell him I loved him, knowing that he wasn’t going to be over to look at the doors any time soon — or possibly ever. But I was sure I’d see him again and I didn’t want wake him. When mom came home, he was still sleeping and Sweden was winning. 

Dad died four days later. That night after being at the hospital, we returned to mom’s condo, puffy-eyed and at a loss for what to do next. All I could think about was that tv schedule. I needed the drawing that I had left behind. Mom had already pitched the schedule and the daily newspapers out. I rifled through the stack of papers in the garage and found it. It seems silly that I would want to have something so small and barely legible. But people do and say and need oddball sorts of things when they’re grieving — my odd thing was that simple drawing, dad’s last effort to help me fix something around our house. Because that’s what he did for all of us kids. Who needed the Handyman Connection when we had our own?

That’s not all he did for us. Below is the eulogy, written by me with the help of my sisters and brothers and mom. Four years later, here we are with another Winter Olympics and a great hockey match between the U.S. and Canada. And here we are honoring and celebrating the same things about dad that made him “our dad.” I’m sure dad was sitting at his workbench in heaven’s basement (he was a basement kind of guy) cheering for the U.S. and cursing Miller’s missed goal, but happy for the hero Sidney Crosby who shot the winning goal and made it one helluva good game.

(Dad and mom, their wedding)

We Remember Dad

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song…

Dad was all of those things to us and more. We always joked with him that he was the King of the House. But, like all good jokes, there was an element of truth in our nickname for him. Above all else, dad loved mom and the family they created. Whenever we were together – for holidays or dinners or birthdays – you could always find Dad, standing just outside our loud and boisterous clan, watching his kingdom with pride.

And in this small way, with his half grin and upturned eyebrow, we all knew how much he loved us. Dad was a quiet man, much quieter than the rest of us, but he taught us how small gestures and moments could be more far powerful and memorable than the grandest of scenes. Here then, are some of the small things we remember of Dad, the things that we will carry largely in our hearts and minds.

Our Dad could fix anything. He fixed our bikes, our skates, our cars, our houses. His workbench in the basement was his palace. It was so organized, we could never get away with stealing one of his tools. He’d ask who took his hammer and we’d have to confess, and, no sooner had we confessed, Dad would be on the job, fixing whatever it was we had tried to fix ourselves. The house on Applevalley showcased much of Dad’s handywork – the bookshelves in the family room, the desk in the bedroom, and, of course, the backyard deck that Kevin and dad built. Dad was a hard worker but he moved at a tortoise pace, something we teased him about. Dad taught us there was a method to his maddening pace. His Zen-like approach to a task – the way he studied every nook and cranny before he set out to work — guaranteed he’d get it done right the first time. He took to heart the motto “Always be prepared” and as much as we joked about his perfect workbench, his organized toolbox, and his preparatory rituals, we were all amazed at how naturally fixing things came to him.

One place where we preferred Dad not to fix anything was in the kitchen. That was Mom’s territory and, to this day, the only person who could make Dad the perfect chocolate chip cookie and the perfect over-easy egg, was Mom. The rest of us paled in comparison. But on those rare occasions when mom had the flu or was taking care of a new brother or sister, Dad was forced to take over in the kitchen. His specialty was grilled cheese or, when all else failed, a trip to Frisch’s for Big Boys and french fries. He was, however, our master of the gas grill and we gave Dad full reign over that territory.

(The family at my grandpa’s farm in Lebanon, OH…sans little bro Kevin who made his debut later)

Packing for vacations was also one of Dad’s many talents. Just as he prepared for a job to repair something, Dad had a method for organizing the car for family trips. Once the cooler was packed and the bags were in the driveway, Dad would spend hours getting everything to fit in the trunk just-so. Then we’d pile in the car and off we’d go for Florida or the farm in Lebanon or a Kentucky State Park. With four and then, later, five kids in the car, Mom and Dad had their hands full. But Dad knew how to keep the peace. We called it “The Look”, and if you got The Look from Dad, you knew it was time to behave.

The Look was part of Dad’s handsome, tough-guy exterior. It made him a great hockey player who spent his fair share of minutes in the penalty box. It also made him a great coach of our soccer and softball and T-ball teams. Dad never sat or stood on the sidelines. He squatted. And, if you weren’t playing your best that day, you might get The Look. Or you might hear his deep, booming voice telling you to “Get your head in the game!”

Dad loved sports. In high school, he played football, golf, and hockey. When he and Mom were first married, they took up sports in the form of poker nights with friends. Mom said they’d bring the beer, the cake, and the kids to someone’s apartment, and spend Saturday night playing cards. That tradition of playing cards carried on through their marriage as Mom and Dad enjoyed being in their Card Club, and also enjoyed getting out the poker chips or Tripoli mat for a family competition during the holidays.

We also hear from Dad’s friends that he made a sport out of playing pranks and being mischievous. Whenever his friends Jack and Al and Terry and others start sharing old stories, Mom just holds her ears and says, “I don’t want to hear it.” But we all know she’s heard the stories many times before and loved Dad’s playful side.

Of all the sports Dad loved, he was proudest of the time he spent playing for the Cincinnati Mohawk Juniors. He wanted to be buried with his Mohawk jersey and jacket but we just can’t give them away. Those mementos are too precious to us and he would be happy to know that his #19 jersey and his tattered jacket that we all took turns wearing at Halloween will always be with us. As are the memories of watching Dad skate, the way he made it look so easy and safe to be out on the frozen lake at the farm.

And that was Dad. Safe and easy-going. Always the first to apologize. And always the first to put everyone’s needs and desires before his own. For all of Dad’s tough-guy, deep-voice exterior, we all recognized that he was an all-star softy. It didn’t take much to get through to Dad’s soft side. Chris, Mary, and Amy saw it when they made Dad some horrible treat from their Easy-Bake Ovens and he ate it without a grimace. Or when they asked Dad to approve their prom dresses or took him to their Father-Daughter dances at McAuley. Dave and Kevin saw it when they were fishing or playing golf or driving with Dad or working on a project with him.

We all saw it in the way he treated his grandkids and granddogs. Even though they caused a ruckus when they visited the house, Dad was happiest when the gang was all together. The dogs knew that treats were never far away from Grandpa. We nicknamed him Grandpa Turkey Sandwich because he always snuck a few scraps of his lunchtime turkey sandwich – perfectly made with mayonnaise, of course – to his four-footed best friends. For the grandkids, the treat was Grandpa setting up the train at Christmas time. He had an old Lionel train set from his childhood and there was nothing like seeing the train go up. Slowly, of course. We all fought to work the controls and get the train to whistle, or to get the miniature milk bottles to rattle off the platform into the dairy car.

While we all have our individual and personal favorite memories of Dad – Dave fondly remembers nights at the race track and days at the farm; Mary remembers Father-Daughter square dances and Dad’s smooth jitterbug moves; Chris recalls trips to the pony keg for penny candy and Dad playing chaueffer when she was a cheerleader; Kevin remembers plenty of family vacations and Dad teaching him how to fix stuff; Amy remembers making Dad laugh with her goofy stories and how Dad always called her “Bird” — what we all remember together is how much Dad loved Mom.

We have been told by friends of the family that Dad fell in love with Mom when he was ten years old, and we know that his love never stopped, it only grew deeper. Being the “king”, Dad always treated mom like his queen. He worked hard, especially early in their marriage, to support the family and make sure there was a little extra for mom to spend on special things. Whether it was roses on their anniversary or a sentimental card or, most recently, helping Mom care for Grandma, Dad showed mom he loved her in his actions. He taught all of us that you can say you love someone but showing that love is more meaningful.

Many times he showed it in what he sacrificed for us. Or how he never complained. He told Mom he’d do anything for her and for his kids, and that’s exactly what he did. Even during his last weeks, he tried not to complain about his discomfort, and he maintained a strong outlook for us. He told Kevin he was feeling “peachy-keen.” He told us kids that “we’d get through this.” We knew it was the stubborn Irishman in him that was keeping him strong, but we also knew that it was going to be hard to say goodbye to the most important things and the biggest source of pride in his life – the family he and mom created together.

We’ve had more than a few people tell us that they wish for the kind of enduring love Mom and Dad have. The kind that grows and persists through the good and bad times. The kind of commitment that is everlasting. The kind of love that is hard to comprehend. We asked Mom the other night to explain their love for each other and she couldn’t. She said, “We loved each other. We just did.”

Today, we are taking comfort in knowing that the King has been welcomed home by so many who have been waiting for him – his beloved mother; his father; the colorful Aunt Marie; his brother-in-law Charlie; his mother-in-law Cass, who always told Dad that he was her favorite son-in-law, no matter that he was her only son-in-law; neighbors Norm Casey and Stew, who made Dad laugh until he cried; his favorite pets Linda, Sam, Murphey, Mollie, and his granddogs Haighleigh, Nikki, and Autumn; and so many others.

If Dad has his way, he’ll put them all on the shrimp boat he always wanted, and they’ll go on a big fishing trip together where they’ll share stories and laugh and watch over and protect the rest of us as we navigate our own courses in life. But there’s one thing for certain – whether we go North, West, East, or South, our love for Dad and the memories we have of him will keep us strong and guide us in the right direction.