Father's Day is here and I must take time to give tribute to my Dad. Dad is 78 years old, 30 years older than his first child (me). I have no pictures to post of me and Dad when I was little because my sister has all of them. The little squirrel. I'll try to get some from her this weekend when I am in New York and post them - LATER. She holds those photos like she is sitting on some sort of treasure, using them for bartering purposes. So I have posted a photo of me and Dad on prom night, 1977.
Anyway, back to my Dad. Dad was born in East Rochester, NY, the 9th of 9 children. By the time dad was born, things weren't pretty at his house, with his immigrant parents trying to feed 9 kids. Thankfully, his oldest sister, Mary, stepped in and basically got a house for the entire family, paid the rent and raised my dad as if he were her own. I won't go into any further detail on this unless I get permission from dad, but suffice it to say that dad had a rough life growing up and I respect him for what he endured and how he went on to become a dad to three kids, albeit rotten ones at times, and loved them anyway.
Dad worked at Eastman Kodak Company for over 30 years during the era of Kodak being one of the biggest employers in New York State. My grandfather (maternal) worked there, my uncles worked there, my cousins worked there, my mom worked there. I almost worked there, but for a blown typing test, because I wanted the job so badly that my hands were shaking. Thinking back, I am convinced that if they would have just realized that it was the style of typewriter, my nervousness and the fact that the woman who was testing me was popping gum like she had a mouthful of those red strips of caps that we used to put in our cap guns, they would have hired me.
When I was 4, we lived in a house within walking distance to Kodak. We had one car and mom needed it to cart her three bratlings around for doctor's appointments, ice cream cones and trips to the local department store. Dad walked to and from work and returned home at the same time everyday and so, in nice weather, mom would let me and my sister walk down the street towards where dad would round the corner. Pat and I would walk together, hand in hand, watching and waiting as we got closer to the field on the corner. Once we caught glimpse of him, we'd let our hands fall and, as fast as we could, we'd run for dad, who had dropped down into a squatting position, arms spread wide, waiting for us to run into those big strong arms. Pat and I would hug him and hug him and hug him some more. Our brother, who was only a baby at the time, waited in his bouncy seat or on his blanket until dad came home with each of his daughters holding a hand and pulling him into the house to see the baby.
Over the years, my father taught me to love nature. He taught me to respect all living things, and mostly to love cats (I have five). He taught me the love of planting and watching things grow when my sister, brother and I were given a Dixie Cup and in it, we planted Morning Glories. When the flowers had reached a certain height, we transplanted them into the garden where they climbed upon a wooden corral-type fence that my dad had installed along the walkway leading to our front door. Dad taught me the names of trees, shrubs, bushes, flowers, weeds and insects. My own patio is a veritable secret garden all its own.
Dad taught me to respect myself and to always hold my head high regardless of what others thought or said. I recall one evening when he and my mom had taken us to a party and dad apparently realized that this was not a party where he would want his kids at because, even at the tender age of 10, I saw how people act when they have had too much to drink. Dad told me to look around and to understand that I was of different blood. That I was to never act this way and that I was better than this. I never forgot dad's instructions. I have always made certain to not embarrass myself or my family (at least not intentionally) and, through dad's teaching, I never leave the house without looking presentable. Earrings are donned even if I'm gardening.
I do recall one time, when I was around 18 years old and I had just returned from a vacation visiting a friend in Tennessee. Dad and I were returning from running errands. At the time, I was still nursing wounds from a breakup with my high school sweetheart. As Dad and I drove down the road and approached our house, I saw him - Dave, walking with a friend, and asked Dad to let me out right there (it was just in front of our house anyway).
I hopped out of the car and yelled out, "Baby, baby, baby!!!" Dad slammed on the brakes as he was rounding the corner to our driveway, opened the car door and yelled, "Get in here!" Reluctantly, I walked back to the car, climbed into the seat and slouched with my head down, staring at my feet. "A lady never acts that way in public. What were you thinking?" We drove around the corner, I got out of the car and went to my room to think about how to be more of a lady. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't because I have always had this pent up desire to burst out of who I am always trying to be or who I am supposed to be. I suppose most of us are like that. Freud would call it our Id. But, as adults, we know that it can be perilous to let Id out and so, as we often should, we keep the poor imprisoned personality locked up - for our own good.
There are so many things my father taught me. I couldn't name them all here. But rest assured that there will be some humorous tales of adventures with my dad off and on at this site in the future. We have taken dance lessons together (and then tried to knock 'em dead on the dance floor), we have been golfing together (ok, I caddied and caught frogs at the 5th hole), we have laughed together and cried together. I can't imagine my life or my world without my Dad in it.
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
