Happy Father's Day, Dad

There is a picture in our hallway of me bring raise in the air by my father. I must have been only a couple of days (maybe a month or so) old at the time. Unfortunately, that is about as close I ever got to knowing Dad.

By the time I was able to remember things, he was not at the house. My mother, good Catholic that she was, never lied to me about him. She simply said he was sick.

And that was true. The problem was it was a sickness we didn't know much about in the late 50s and early 60s. We didn't know what to do with people who had "personality" disorders. So, we stuck them in a hospital. I am not sure my mother, a nurse, even knew exactly what occurred at the hospital. All I ever knew was we went there to visit him every now and then. At holidays, he would come home for a short time. (Odd. I can't remember if he stayed at home overnight.) I don't remember his voice at all.

But I have been told by my older brothers that, when he was well, he was a terrific fellow. Somewhere, there is a picture of my brother Frank with Dad in New York City. They are riding on elephants. That's right. Elephants in Central Park. Frank said he was seven or eight at the time. Dad's departure because of illness (I am guessing, among other things, it was an early form of Alzheimer's) was tougher on Frank and my oldest brother Johnny because they knew him a bit as a dad. Me? He was simply a guy who came around at times. He was pleasant enough. But I don't recall a single son/dad interaction (like playing catch) with him.

(I was lucky, though. I had a wonderful Big Brother and several other adults who filled in the best they could.)

So, I have to take the word of other people about him. I have been told he had a great sense of humor and he was a kind and caring man. Uncle Cletus, who I lived with from age 2 to 6, never said a bad word about him. Uncle Emmett, who was married to Dad's only sister, praised him, too. Aunt Mary Jane, who was married to Dad's brother, once described him as "impish." At the time, I had no idea what that meant. Now that I do know it, I would like somebody to call me impish just once.

On a day like today, we tend to remember happily and (if they are still with us), spend time with our dads. What I always will remember about Dad is an amazing incident that occurred 42 years ago.

Mom passed away from cancer on May 17, 1969. Two days later, the wake was held. It was a miserable cold, rainy spring day. What I remember at the funeral home is thinking of how strong Dad was that day. How he greeted Mom's old friends and family. I can still see him smiling, shaking hands and hugging everyone. I didn't know how sick he really was. And I was only 15 years old. But I remember being amazed at what I was seeing.

I have never asked my brothers if that is the way it really was. I think we all want to have a good memory of our dads. This one is mine and I don't want to lose it.

Dad slipped badly after Mom died. He suffered a stroke and a loss of memory. I moved on with my life and was in college when he died. I remember going back to that same funeral home when Mom had been. This time, there were only a few people -- my brothers a couple of family friends.. When dad died, there weren't enough people left who remembered him to have pallbearers. My brothers and I helped carry the casket to the hearse.

I felt bad for Dad. I am sure this wasn't the way he planned it out. It was just the way it was. All sons, I suspect, want to do something special for their dad. I had never gotten the chance to do so. The dice just didn't fall that way. There was nothing to do but accept it and move on.

A few years later, though, I was able to finally do something for him. I was in Detroit for business and made a quick trip to the cemetery to visit Mom and Dad's graves. On Dad's marker, I noticed the year of his death had never been etched in. Mom had paid for the stones years in advance. When Dad died, they simply put the marker in. Nobody noticed. Because none of my brothers live in Detroit, they never saw it either.

But it bothered me to no end. I went to the marker place across the street from the cemetery. A kind woman looked up the bill. Nothing had ever been noted about putting the year of his death on the marker. I inquired how much it was. When I got back to town, I mailed them a check immediately. The woman called me back a few days later to say it had been done. Would she like me to send a picture of it. I said that wasn't necessary. But I appreciated the gesture.

A couple of years later, I was back in Detroit for one day. I rented a car and sped to the cemetery. I ran anxiously to the site. The year had been carved in. Whoever did it was a real marksman because it looked to the world as it had actually been done at the time of death ... not 30 years later.

Visiting a cemetery to see your parents' grave is usually a sad experience. This one was, too. But it was tempered by the fact that, at long last, I finally was able to do something for my dad.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Looking forward to sitting down with you one day.