Dad would have turned 82 today. He almost made it to 79. There’s something in the light and the air at this late-autumn time that makes me think of him. I wish he’d made it farther into his own winter, in good health and clear mind. Still, I am thankful for what was. Those peaks that rise, still visible over my childhood dropping below the horizon.
Dad rescued me more than once, after a cycling misadventure. These days, I carry tools while cycling: spare tubes, wrenches, a CO2 inflator. I have a phone, too. Back in the years when my silver Fuji ten-speed first made my world bigger, I’d call Dad—those were pay-phone days. Whether it was a flat tire, the bent crank on City Line Avenue, or the cracked frame in Manayunk, Dad would come, his large Lincoln a welcome sight. The trunk would swallow the bike. Not even Lance has a team car like that. We’d ride home, his arm draped over the seat, the car rocking softly over curves, the radio playing classical music, Dad humming along.
Dad had a piano. He got it while living in Center City in Philly, and he’d have friends over who would sing and play. Dad never tried to play until his later years, and he did his best to keep it a secret from Mom and me. Still, he taught me to love music. An only child, I’d spend a lot of time in my room, with my little plastic folding record player. I had picked out an eclectic selection from Dad’s record collection: Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, My Fair Lady, Never on Sunday, Rossini’s William Tell Overture, Lord Buckley. (Google that last one. Really.) He bought me my first instrument, a plastic clarinet, and later financed a couple of my guitars. The guitar, naturally louder, fulfilled my need to be seen and heard, but I always felt a bit sheepish about my taste in rock music. Dad was never critical. I hope he was proud.
I owe whatever handiness I have to Dad. I’d accompany him to our rental property in the city. I never minded being the assistant, since I knew there would be a cheesesteak in the deal. I started out as the man with the broom and the mop, but eventually graduated to painting. There were always tools around the house, and I guess I just followed Dad’s lead of simply fixing whatever needed it.
Dad always provided, even after I moved out of the house. I’d be back in town to visit, and, inevitably, leaving became quite an ordeal as Dad lined the kitchen counter with grocery bags full of food. Perishable items were surrounded by frozen things. Everything was double-bagged. I’d lift the hatch of my rusty Honda and fill the back. Once I said, jokingly, “You know, Dad, we have grocery stores in Albany.” I was a bit embarrassed by it all. It makes more sense to me now: Dad’s Depression-era upbringing, his reserved nature, his sweetness and love shown by what he did rather than simply what he said.
Thanks, Dad, for all of that, and these things too: Lionel trains that taught me about electricity and geography; music playing constantly in the house; your laughs coming up from the living room; your ways with words, whether in conversation or on a Christmas present tag; your healthy contempt for stupid advertisements; putting up with band practice in the basement; your voracious reading; your knowledge that ran broad and deep; your kindness and generosity that ran that way, too.
Happy birthday, Dad. I love you and I miss you.
