rendova
02-04-2007, 10:21 AM
It was 25 years ago today that my Dad died. Dear god, it seems like yesterday. He was always so alive to me, so vital. Of all the people I have ever known, he was the most driven. Maybe because he always knew he didn't have much time. Even now, after all these years, I cannot always accept that he is gone.
Dad grew up, literally, dirt poor. The oldest of 12 kids, during the Great Depression, there were many times the family did not have enough to eat. The kids didn't always have shoes and wore raggedy hand me downs. But their house was clean and there were books to read, and his mom, Naomi S, who Dad worshipped ,and who had come from a prominent land owning family that had disowned her when she married, would have died before she accepted charity. There were many days when this woman went without food so her kids would have something to eat.
Dad's dad was a vicious drunk. He had been a promising young player for the Detroit Tigers whose career was cut short by an injury. He took this out on his wife and kids--beatings, whippings. However, he seriously underestimated the wrath of his wife, who, though she stood less than 5 feet tall and was still dainty and beautiful despite years of hardship, had a temper that matched his. In defense of her kids, she'd knock her drunken husband down the stairs with a broom, or break a coffee pot over his head. Until he learned better manners and who the REAL boss was around there.
Grandpa,chronically unemployed, still found enough cash to spend on booze and women. He played around on Grandma frequently, even when she was dying of cancer at age 44. She had not been dead a month when he brought home a new girlfriend. "Here, kids, here's your new mom."
From that day forward, Dad never spoke to his own father again. Though Grandpa later lived but a few miles from us, I never met him. My mom never saw him, never saw a picture of him. Dad went to his funeral when he died. That was it.
When Grandma Naomi died in 1947 Dad had already seen Navy combat in the war and was working 2 jobs and going to school at night. He took in some of his brothers when Grandpa and the new mom threw them out after their marriage. He raised those boys like he was their Dad. He was 20 years old. He made them go to school and helped them find jobs. From that point on, Dad was driven to be the leader, the boss--much as his mom had been.
Dad grew to be quite successful. How could he not be? All he did was work. He has known nothing less all his life. So of course he made money. But he never forgot where he came from.
When Dad was a boy he met John Dillinger. His aunt was a part-time girlfriend of Baby Face Nelson and had the car, furs, and guns to show for it. One day she took Dad and a few of his brothers to one of the gang's hideouts. Dad shook Johnny's hand, who smiled kindly, gave him $50, and told him to stay in school and help his mom. When Dillinger was shot dead a
few months later, Dad was inconsolable. This was the beginning of his life long love affair with those outside the law, those getting by as best they could in those terrible times.
When Dad quit his job with Lockheed and started his own business he hired high school kids and paid good wages. He also hired ex cons who couldn't get a job because they'd been in prison. Not one of those men ever stole from dad. Not one.
Dad and Mom didn't have a happy marriage. They may have been happy at one time. If so, I never saw it. Behind his back Mom would ridicule Dad's poor family and deprived upbringing. If Dad had known, he probably would have laughed. He used to say it doesn't matter how you start out, what matters is how you finish.
Dad was a strict Dad. He had few rules but they had better be obeyed. That was understood. He had a temper much like his mom's--explosive and unpredictable. We all knew who the boss was--yes, even mom. You did not cross Dad. When we brought boyfriends home to meet him, a few of the young guys literally shook in their shoes. But Dad was always polite. He could care less about their family background or where they came from. He just wanted to know 2 things: Do you work? Are you trying to better yourself? Or are you just out for a good time?
The answer had better be the right one.
Towards the end, Dad got tired. He had worked very hard. He had done it the right way. He didn't lie, he didn't steal. He was honest. He owed no dollars. But he was tired.
He had a stroke and was unable to talk or move for 3 weeks before he died. But his brain still functioned.He was glad to see us. His eyes lit up-- black eyes just like his mom's. Even in sickness, Dad was still a handsome man. But he was tired, and tired of fighting, tho there was still so much he wanted to do. I saw him the day he died.But I couldn't stay long, I had to get back to my own kids who were babies. I told him we would all go to the Lake that summer--Lake Michigan, the shores by which he had been born and that he loved so. He died that night, alone. Maybe he wanted to be alone. Or I tell myself that.
At the funeral, garbagemen and excons and flashy guys from Chicago rubbed shoulders with doctors and judges and bank presidents. They were all there for one reason--to say goodbye to a guy who had been a good friend and who treated everyone the same--decent. One old guy, an ex con, said to me, "I loved your Dad, you know. He gave me a second chance."
The funeral procession stretched for blocks. I rode in back with the bums and the criminals dad had befriended and my own kids who would never know this man except for a few old stories and a few old pictures. Dad was buried in the family plot next to his mom. He had come home. He had fought the good fight. He had kept the faith.
I'll be there myself before long. And if i do things right, if i live the right way, maybe my kids will remember me the way I remember him.
Until then I am keeping the faith, Dad. Dad, I love you. Always.
Dad grew up, literally, dirt poor. The oldest of 12 kids, during the Great Depression, there were many times the family did not have enough to eat. The kids didn't always have shoes and wore raggedy hand me downs. But their house was clean and there were books to read, and his mom, Naomi S, who Dad worshipped ,and who had come from a prominent land owning family that had disowned her when she married, would have died before she accepted charity. There were many days when this woman went without food so her kids would have something to eat.
Dad's dad was a vicious drunk. He had been a promising young player for the Detroit Tigers whose career was cut short by an injury. He took this out on his wife and kids--beatings, whippings. However, he seriously underestimated the wrath of his wife, who, though she stood less than 5 feet tall and was still dainty and beautiful despite years of hardship, had a temper that matched his. In defense of her kids, she'd knock her drunken husband down the stairs with a broom, or break a coffee pot over his head. Until he learned better manners and who the REAL boss was around there.
Grandpa,chronically unemployed, still found enough cash to spend on booze and women. He played around on Grandma frequently, even when she was dying of cancer at age 44. She had not been dead a month when he brought home a new girlfriend. "Here, kids, here's your new mom."
From that day forward, Dad never spoke to his own father again. Though Grandpa later lived but a few miles from us, I never met him. My mom never saw him, never saw a picture of him. Dad went to his funeral when he died. That was it.
When Grandma Naomi died in 1947 Dad had already seen Navy combat in the war and was working 2 jobs and going to school at night. He took in some of his brothers when Grandpa and the new mom threw them out after their marriage. He raised those boys like he was their Dad. He was 20 years old. He made them go to school and helped them find jobs. From that point on, Dad was driven to be the leader, the boss--much as his mom had been.
Dad grew to be quite successful. How could he not be? All he did was work. He has known nothing less all his life. So of course he made money. But he never forgot where he came from.
When Dad was a boy he met John Dillinger. His aunt was a part-time girlfriend of Baby Face Nelson and had the car, furs, and guns to show for it. One day she took Dad and a few of his brothers to one of the gang's hideouts. Dad shook Johnny's hand, who smiled kindly, gave him $50, and told him to stay in school and help his mom. When Dillinger was shot dead a
few months later, Dad was inconsolable. This was the beginning of his life long love affair with those outside the law, those getting by as best they could in those terrible times.
When Dad quit his job with Lockheed and started his own business he hired high school kids and paid good wages. He also hired ex cons who couldn't get a job because they'd been in prison. Not one of those men ever stole from dad. Not one.
Dad and Mom didn't have a happy marriage. They may have been happy at one time. If so, I never saw it. Behind his back Mom would ridicule Dad's poor family and deprived upbringing. If Dad had known, he probably would have laughed. He used to say it doesn't matter how you start out, what matters is how you finish.
Dad was a strict Dad. He had few rules but they had better be obeyed. That was understood. He had a temper much like his mom's--explosive and unpredictable. We all knew who the boss was--yes, even mom. You did not cross Dad. When we brought boyfriends home to meet him, a few of the young guys literally shook in their shoes. But Dad was always polite. He could care less about their family background or where they came from. He just wanted to know 2 things: Do you work? Are you trying to better yourself? Or are you just out for a good time?
The answer had better be the right one.
Towards the end, Dad got tired. He had worked very hard. He had done it the right way. He didn't lie, he didn't steal. He was honest. He owed no dollars. But he was tired.
He had a stroke and was unable to talk or move for 3 weeks before he died. But his brain still functioned.He was glad to see us. His eyes lit up-- black eyes just like his mom's. Even in sickness, Dad was still a handsome man. But he was tired, and tired of fighting, tho there was still so much he wanted to do. I saw him the day he died.But I couldn't stay long, I had to get back to my own kids who were babies. I told him we would all go to the Lake that summer--Lake Michigan, the shores by which he had been born and that he loved so. He died that night, alone. Maybe he wanted to be alone. Or I tell myself that.
At the funeral, garbagemen and excons and flashy guys from Chicago rubbed shoulders with doctors and judges and bank presidents. They were all there for one reason--to say goodbye to a guy who had been a good friend and who treated everyone the same--decent. One old guy, an ex con, said to me, "I loved your Dad, you know. He gave me a second chance."
The funeral procession stretched for blocks. I rode in back with the bums and the criminals dad had befriended and my own kids who would never know this man except for a few old stories and a few old pictures. Dad was buried in the family plot next to his mom. He had come home. He had fought the good fight. He had kept the faith.
I'll be there myself before long. And if i do things right, if i live the right way, maybe my kids will remember me the way I remember him.
Until then I am keeping the faith, Dad. Dad, I love you. Always.