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February 8, 1924 - July 30, 2004

My Dad was a contradiction. He was a gregariously shy man. The son of a preacher who didn't attend church. A kind old bastard who was brought up in a time when it was right to not like “them”, whoever “them” was. He hated when people hyphenated America. If you wanted to be a kind of American; Irish-American, African-American, German-American, Italian-American, Native-American then he suspected that you might be one of "them."  He thought the best thing to be was just a plain old unhyphenated American.  He had friends that were "something"-American and once he knew you personally it was OK, it wasn't right, but is was OK. He defended America in his war. He defended it to his sons when they questioned theirs. He was proud of his sons that served and of his sons and daughters that didn't.   He lived in a time when Men waited outside the delivery room and I believe he was happy that he did. Men don't kiss and it always kind of surprised me when he kissed my Mom.

It always bothered me that he couldn't say, "I love you."  It didn't bother me too much because we knew he did love us and if pressed he might have told us "Of course I love you, don't you know that?"   My answer would have to have been "Yes." so I guess in the end it didn't matter.    My youngest brother is very disappointed that he doesn't know much about my Dad, he mistakenly thinks that the rest of us do.    We all have our stories Jim's are better than most.    Dad would tell you anything you asked and was more than happy to correct you if you told one of his stories wrong, but he didn't elaborate.  He didn't have a single story that he told over and over again giving away what he thought was important verses what was not.

He was one of the smartest guys I knew.  I was always on thin ground if I argued facts with him.   I could win an antidotal argument  but if it came down to facts I knew I was going to get in trouble.  He knew about stuff that he had no reason to know about. He did just about every hard job you could do.  He was a telegraph messenger, machine operator, Military Policeman.  One of the funniest stories he told me was when he was guarding German soldiers in Georgia. He handed one of the prisoners a ice cold Coca -Cola, the guy looked up at him and said, "You have Coca -Cola in America?"  He later served in the battle for the  Northern Solomons. He was a merchant marine. He went back in the Army after WWII and served in Korea. He got out of the Army again just before the Korean war because he saw it coming and after serving in a world war he didn't want to serve in a police action.

He was a train conductor, Kodak worker, and butcher.  He even worked at a brewery for a single day or more like a half day.  The Genesee Brewery allowed their workers to have as much of the company's product as they wanted.  They tell me that Dad never showed back up after lunch and they found him in the basement passed out with twelve empty beer bottles lined up like bowling pins, needless to say his employment at the brewery was short but memorable. He went on to work at  Ritter's and French's and then went to work as a warehousemen at Rochester Refrigeration.  He had to leave that job after 11 years because his doctor told him the constant cold was starting to get to him.  The last 8 years of work were at General Motors retiring at 65.  He probably had a lot more jobs but he was a quiet man and so some of  the things he did only he would know.  The Deacon at the service thought he was also a fireman since there were three fire trucks in the parking lot and the room was full of firemen who came from the fire houses that my brother has served at, but as far as I know the only firefighting he did was tossing a burning mattress out the window.  Dad wasn't a manager.  They offered him the job but he never wanted to be the guy in charge.  There is "Labor" and "Management" my Dad was always "Labor"

My dad never had a lot of money. When he got out of the service they gave him $172.93.  The money included the first hundred dollar bill he ever saw.  He walked into a bar and ordered a drink and even though he had smaller bills he put the hundred dollar bill down on the bar to impress the bartender.  He was so disappointed when the bartender scooped it up and dropped his change down without even a comment.

He could fix an engine, do carpentry, plumbing, electrical work, change the tubes in our old television, he knew how to camp, and fish, he was a man's man. He was fearless and did these things because they needed to be done. He didn't do them to impress anyone, in fact he sometimes did them without us knowing anything about it. He knew stupid little things like if you touch the inside of a canvas tent in the rain that the water with wick through, of course it is not that stupid if you don't want the water to leak through your tent.  One of my first memories was of him showing me how to patch a bicycle tire. I thought of it 40 years later when I was showing my own son how to patch a tire. I was more impressed about it than Matthew seemed to be.

I never saw him really excited, he was a rock, sort of a James Bond, character although he always reminded me more of Humphrey Bogart . He knew how to do things and if he didn't he faked it well enough that all those around him believed he knew how to do it. He had a great sense of humor, dry humor and it pleased him more if you didn't get the joke than if you did. His wit was for him, if you didn't get it that was fine with him.   If he kidded you he liked you and he kidded just about everyone.

I have many memories of my Dad.  He would come home from work sit down in front of the television and watch the news.  At six o'clock he would get up and walk to the head of the dinning room table.  When he sat,  dinner was served.  I didn't notice it at the time but he would take the serving platter that my Mom placed in front of him and pass it to the right.  It would circle around the large and very full table until it circled back to him.  He served himself after we took ours.  I never went hungry and remember that we often had "seconds."   We had eight people at the table which made me a  bit nervous when the pile of food my Mom put out started to be greatly reduced before it got to me.  I think David sat to the right of me and I'm sure he felt much more anxious knowing I was between him and dinner.  Dad sat to the right of David at the head of the table, I never noticed if Dad got passed an empty platter.  Over twenty years feeding eight people, it had to happen more than once but Dad never brought it to our attention if it did.   He never lorded his virtues over us.

I also remember walking on the rail road tracks near our house. Betty tells me that Dad use to take us out every Sunday to give Mom the day off.  We would walk along the railroad tracks going to one of his favorite bars.    He could get the engineers to blow their whistle and sometimes he would get them to stop.  He knew some of them from work were he off loaded the trains.  He knew some of them from being a conductor but I'm convinced he could have gotten them to stop even if he didn't have this connection to them.

He talked to people as if he had known them all of their lives.  I remember pulling into a garage where he borrowed the mechanic's tools, a rag to pop the radiator cap, and some water to fill it.   The owner didn't seem to think it was strange that my dad fixed his own car then shook his hand and left without offering to pay him anything.  My dad said to me, "Nice guy.  If I ever have any car trouble we should bring the car to him."    I'm sure Dad's praise of the guy to his friends got the mechanic more business but Dad didn't think of those things.  He thought people should help you out if you needed it and you should help every time you got the chance.

I got to see my Dad a couple of weeks before he passed and I will always be grateful for that.  I learned a lot about my Dad that I didn't know or barely knew.   The thing that sticks with me the most  as I wrote in my last story was that he lived his life to the adage that, "The kids always eat first."  He believed that a father provides for his family.   We didn't have a lot but he always gave us more than he took. 

My Dad loved to play the part of troublemaker.  He took it as a great honor that he got coal for Christmas.  He would never show off an expensive present but everyone had to see that he got coal from Santa Claus.  My kids thought he deserved it since Santa wouldn't make a mistake like giving coal to the wrong person and someone had to get coal.  Plus if anybody deserved coal my Dad deserved it.  He was raised in a time when saying I'll see you in hell was an accepted farewell.  He lead a pretty good life but I believe that if Saint Peter told him he was going to Hell my dad wouldn't complain.  He'd pack his bags and say, "Never expected anything else. Now how about you and I get a beer together before I have to go, but we better make it quick because I hate to be late."

My oldest brother spoke at his funeral about how Dad wasn't a religious man but he was a good man, an honest man, a loving father and husband.  My Mom surprised us by telling us that she placed a deck of cards in his casket.  It was my fathers idea, he told my Mom about six months ago that his brother "Willy" always treated cards badly and they would need a new deck when he got up there.  Three of his brothers passed before him and he wanted a fresh deck of cards to play Euchre with them.

My Dad was an alcoholic.  Sometimes he knew it, sometimes he didn't.  He used to drink a case of beer a week.  That is four six packs.  I have had more than that on a single day sitting by a river.  I don't remember him ever drinking more, and I really can not remember him drinking less.  He was a cheap drunk.  I never saw him drink hard liquor.  He considered himself a professional drinker, he wouldn't go out on New Years Eve since the bars were full of "amateurs."    He wasn't a mean drunk.  He wasn't a mellow drunk.  He was, as always, himself, only drunk.   He stopped drinking for over ten years, I didn't love him anymore when he gave it up nor any less when he started to drink again.  

My son said to me a month or so before my Dad died, "I am going to be a better father than you."   It didn't bother me as much as you would think.   He didn't say it in rancor, it wasn't said to shock or hurt me, it was a conversational statement of fact and my only thought was "I hope you are.    I hope that you take the best of what I have to offer and none of my faults."     I didn't say that to him..  I said, "Sorry buddy you are too much like me to get away with being much better at this than I am.   I wish you luck and joy but we are too much a like."     I am also my father's son.   I thank him for all he gave me and the sacrifices that he made for us.  His life was not easy but he did all he could to make sure that ours was as easy as he could make it.  I'd like to be a better father and husband and the one thing that I know is, that he would want the same thing for me.     He was proud of us and loved us.

I  hope I have his strength , his wit, his wisdom.   I wish I liked individual people as much as he did.   I wish I could have his charm, his grace and his ability to not take credit for the thoughtfulness and kindness that he was capable of.    I saw my dad's faults as well.  He could be hurtful and didn't suffer fool's well even when those fool's were the people that he loved.   He wasn't openly affectionate and at times he could be cruel.  He could be a mean old bastard  and I saw him throw plates and pull off his belt more times than I can count.   I never heard him apologize for anything.  It wasn't his style.   He didn't take credit and he didn't ask forgiveness.  I can only hope that I am what he wanted me to be; a better man, father, and husband then he was.   The problem is I know that the reality is "I'm too much like him to get away with being much better than he was.   We are too much a like."    In the end I'll be happy if I can meet the standards he set.   The one thing I know I will be better at is saying "I love you."    I try to say it everyday and I'll end this note to him the same way I ended every phone call to him.

"I love you, Dad."

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