I Want To Walk With My Father

I don’t know why my mind wandered to thoughts of dad this morning. Perhaps it’s because of the wonderful words I recently read by other bloggers, and their fond memories of their dad. But the thoughts washed over me this morning, as mom quietly slept in the other room

My father was a good man, and in his life he made good – even if sometimes hard – choices. In his youth he stopped school at the 6th grade, because during the depression his younger brothers and sisters needed him. My Godfather, his brother, once wrote me of coming home from school with his siblings for lunch and saying “Potato soup, again!” to my father, but he also wrote of how much he loved my dad and the sacrifices he made to help the family. Dad later joined a polka band, playing the accordion, and he told me of the wonderful times they had. He told me of the wedding that lasted all weekend, sleeping in the hayloft and then getting up to play and celebrate some more. He told me of meeting and eventually marrying my mom. And then the war came, and he was off to Europe almost before the ink on the marriage certificate was dry. My sister was born, and he didn’t see her for three years --- and she screamed when she first saw him. He didn’t talk much of the war, but of his company of 125 men, only five came back. They exchanged Christmas cards for many years. They didn’t diagnose post-traumatic stress syndrome back then, but mom said he screamed in his sleep every night after he got home; she thought of having him committed to some institution. He eventually left to wander the country for some months, riding the rails, but he came back.

Dad went to work on the railroad, and advanced into management positions. When they offered him a big promotion to move back east to the home office, and he was sorely tempted. But “I saw how almost every man I knew in that position worked long, stressful hours --- and was divorced. You mom didn’t want to move you children, and you all were more important to me than prestige or money, so we stayed here.” He was never offered another promotion, but won awards for the work he did. I remembered his words when promotions were offered to me.

We grew up in an all white suburb of Chicago, near an all black suburb. No one talked about racial things, and people in the stores in town were as likely to be black as white; it was no big deal. I remember when the things down in Alabama and Dr. King hit the papers, I thought it more strange than anything else. I remember when dad told me of the first time he had dinner at the home of one of the black men who worked for him; he had about 60-75 direct reports on his job. He described the man as one of the nicest, most loving men he knew, and his best employee. He talked about the love he saw in the home; he spoke of admiring him. He told me to never think that I am better than any man, but I recall feeling they were strange words. The commandments we were taught in school said love you neighbor, they never mentioned color or race, and I just never thought about it. When I later went to high school and college in Chicago, where I was or who I was with never mattered to me. The only time I thought about racial prejudice was when I was the only white person in the El car, especially if the other people were tough-looking young men. But I’m not sure my unease had to do with color or not.

I don’t recall many father-son talks with my dad; I learned much from him by just watching how he led his life. He and mom never fought --- well, except that one time when I ran away from home because I was so shocked at his yelling and her crying. But after I ate the banana I took with me, I went back home. I don’t recall many repairmen at our house. If mom wanted something or something needed fixing dad either fixed it or got a book from the library to figure out how to fix it, and then he did. He always read lots, as I do. He paved the driveway, built the garage, re-wired and re-plumbed the house, built our bedrooms and added the concrete front porch. As I grew up and started wanting what “all the other kids had,” dad always told me I could have them. I could have anything; all I had to do was go out and earn the money for them. It was a lesson I never forgot, and I still admire people who live that way. He paid for my Catholic high school, but I had to pay for the bus fare to get to it. I paid for my college degree. I bought my first car when I was 19, a new one I paid cash for, about a week after I got my driver’s license.

Dad harassed me into hitting that first bucket of golf balls at the driving range. Golf seemed a game for sissies. But then for years he and I would golf every Thursday afternoon, a different course each week. I think that was the only thing dad was not proud of me for; I was and am a horrible golfer. In his retirement years he had a coach from the University of Wisconsin bring his students to watch my dad hit the ball, with his easy swing. He had his last hole in one at age 87. Those Thursday afternoons as we walked, I talked to dad about all the problems I had in my teenage years, my job, my school, and yeh, girls, although I never really had any time for them then. Thinking back, those were some of the best days of my life, and if I were truly ever able to live any part of my life over, I’d say I’d want those days; I’d say I want to walk with my father. Later, when I graduated from undergrad college and moved to another state, dad wrote me letters in that beautiful clear handwriting of his, telling me what was going on at home. Still later, he wrote to tell me how much he enjoyed his retirement, and the home he purchased on the river. We had many enjoyable days and nights fishing together there; it almost reminded me of those Thursday afternoons. He had many happy retirement years, and despite having a pass to travel anywhere in the country by rail passenger service, he never traveled even once --- mom always like to stay at home, and so he did also.

I can’t recall dad ever asking anything of me. He just gave. So I was surprised on the night when he called me on my cell phone and said he had a problem he needed some help with. He was out of breath and couldn’t get out of his chair. There wasn’t much I could do from 500 miles away except to tell him to hang up and dial 911. When I got home, I called the neighbor to get over there. Mom was sitting on her porch rocker at 3AM as I drove up. “Dad’s sick,” she said. Two days later the doctors told me, and I told dad, that he had terminal cancer. He didn’t question anything about the diagnosis; his first words were: “You’ll take care of mom?” He died 5 days later.

I miss dad, but I probably talk to him more often now than I did in the later years of his life. He still gives good advice. He still prays for me. What else could you ask of a father? At some point though, I look forward to walking with him again.