Fathers Be Good to Your Daughters. Daughters Will Love Like You Do

Of all the Hallmark holidays, Father’s Day doesn’t cost me a dime. No grandfathers, godfather or father-in-law. For the past seven years, not even the father-of-my-children which saves me money not having to buy ugly tank tops and Yankees shirts for the boys to excitedly give him. Father’s Day use to be a testosterone filled, toilet seat in the vertical position, who-is-playing-on-what-field day. It’s anything but that now.

Four years ago, my dad died.  It wasn't totally unexpected.  He had been sick on and off for about a year, with the doctors misdiagnosing his pulmonary fibrosis.  He died three days after Wingman's birthday, and I literally WILLED him to stay alive at least a day past that so I wouldn't be forced to say "Yep, today is Wingman's birthday and the day Dad died.” It may not have been as much my will as his final wish to see his great granddaughter one more time before he died. I guess I know where I get my stubbornness from.

My dad dropped out of high school to join the Navy in World War ll.  His mother wouldn’t give him permission to enlist, so his older sister signed his papers. He was a skinny kid who was too light to load the big guns on a ship, so he became a radioman. When he got out, his family had moved to a different state and he started over, working for no pay in his parents’ grocery store. When he started dating my mom, he had to ask his mom for money to go out with her.

At some point, he stopped working for his parents and became a bricklayer. He wore flannel shirts and white undershirts and the same khaki work pants day after day, year after year, that he would take off at the back door before coming into the house. When I was in high school, he worked on converting a garage in the school parking lot to a building for athletes. He drove me in his white Jeep Wrangler-the consolation prize for stupidly co-signing a loan for his brother who couldn’t pay for it.  I don't recall any conversations, but I'm sure I probably talked enough to make his ears bleed. Usually after work he would head next door to the local bar, and have a couple of beers with his friends. If you’ve ever watched the Springsteen Broadway show, there’s a scene where he talks about his dad sitting at a bar after work which is spot-on with what I remember of mine.

Dad was a quiet guy.  No drama, never an angry outburst and as kids, we knew that we could get away with stuff with dad without punishment.  He would threaten to take off his belt and we would just laugh-unlike the smack down mom was known to give. The only time I ever saw him TRULY angry was when First Love threatened to kill my BFF and I . He went with me to the police station, and the Sargent wouldn’t/couldn’t believe that a nice kid could be violent. My 5’ 8” dad got right up in his 6’2” face and threatened him saying that if anything happened to me, he would come and do the same to him. Fiercely protective as only a dad could be.

Dad didn't have any real hobbies but he loved horse racing which sometimes got him into trouble. One Friday when he went to the track and didn't come home on time for dinner, my mother dropped a pot of steamers in front of him on the floor.  Fortunately, they literally came up out of the pot and went right back in without spilling a drop.  His brother owned a couple of horses and somehow, my dad bought one too. I made his silks using the star pattern from my company's performa for the design. One day, he called me at college to say that Lindy was running. I skipped school, took a bus to Jersey and we drove to the track in Cherry Hill. Even though Shining Lindy didn’t win, it was one of my favorite days with my dad. (And mom never knew.)

In his later years, he became obsessed with watching every World War ll documentary he could find on TV.  His best friend survived the sinking of the Juneau (the ship that the five Sullivan brothers perished on), and they spent every Memorial and Veteran's Day together.  Today, I meet his friend's son at those events, honoring them and their service.

We laugh that when picking out their mausoleum crypt, he picked one high enough and close enough that he could hear the race calls at the nearby track. Today, I'll go over, knock on the front of the crypt and to say hello to the man of few words.  And then head over to the track to place a bet on any horse with a name like Lindy or a jockey wearing silks with stars.

Because that's where my dad would want to be today.  And where it makes me smile to remember the great dad he was.