Love to My Dad

My Dad was born in March 1937, the middle child of Olive and Whitey, two of the kindest, most gentle and most loving people I can remember ever knowing. He inherited his mother’s round expressive eyes; his father’s signature hairline and graceful hands. From what I remember of the stories, his childhood was free-range; but not always easy. In the borough of Saltsburg, adventures were to be in the neighborhood and down at the river. Times were different than now in many ways. Children left unsupervised to prove themselves and create their own fun.

For his family, times were often lean. His father a barber, the shop actually a part of the house. His mother a homemaker, utterly devoted to her three boys. The imprint of hard times and “not enough” colored his world view all of his life.

The first of his family to attend college, he made his way to Indiana University of Pennsylvania, then a teacher’s college. Education was his passion and livelihood, a complex tapestry of experiences that can be classified as both inspiring and exhausting. He worked his way from teaching to administration, and there are many stories that weave together the ideals of the young aspiring educator and the reality of years within the system. I heard most of these stories from Mom. It was hard, hard work.

I still remember being an elementary school student, and when Dad walked into a room, there was just complete silence. A mix of respect and fear that he inspired, without ever raising his voice. He just looked around, his gaze conveying this: I expect the highest and best behavior from everyone here.

He went on to receive his Masters of Education from the University of California (PA); studying nights and weekends. A full-time job and three kids and the responsibilities of adulting; I know it was hard.

Dad is a Pisces (cue the eye-roll from my kids and maybe some of the rest of you); a seriously sensitive soul. In this world that sensitivity is both a blessing and a curse. He had serious bouts of depression; I also think he also had the newly coined term “imposter syndrome.” It didn’t matter; there wasn’t really time for him to process or retreat or repair. There was work and his family and then THE extended family; and blessedly, Summers OFF.

And he made the most of those Summers. He gardened. Everywhere. There was half of the backyard. There was the patch behind his Mom & Dad’s place; the strip of the backyard in the neighbor’s near Mom’s parents. Seedlings in the basement, the garage, everywhere. Nourished with fish poo from the fish tanks. He engaged his ingenuity and make-do practicality. I remember going out on trash nights to cruise the neighbors and pick up old grills for nightly fires or bags of leaves for the compost pile.

He was a very capable jack-of-all-trades in a just-enough sort of way; there were always projects. The retaining wall and cement driveway of the Idlewood Road house; the screened-in porch; the A-frame play house.  And then his dream home, the log house on Silvis Hollow Road.

But let’s back up to the love story. Everyone likes a good love story. And I remember often both Mom and Dad telling us the story of how they met. In a bar, like the movies. But really, he was there with a group of educators; Mom was there with her parents. Mom was also a school teacher; and apparently she had some knock-out sexy legs back then. There was some kind of synergy from a quick introduction; and he tracked her down. And if you know Mom, he must have demonstrated that he was diligent, educated and charming. They married, and when he passed it had been 54 years together.

Their souls are still intertwined; of this, I am sure. Their relationship deserves its own conversation. But today; this day is about Dad.

The house that they built on Silvis Hollow truly fulfilled so many of his dreams and aspirations. Time in nature; space to garden. Space to collect things and save what might be practical. A place away from the fray and the kids and the school and the weight of administration. No one showing up and knocking at the door to cuss him out. No more bb gun pellets through the windows; or egging or rotten apples every Halloween. The privacy, space and nature of 10 acres in Murrysville, and a home with rooms for every kid, a man-cave, a barn -- the home of Mom & Dad’s dreams.

It was that place that gave him the vision of how his retirement would be. And as soon as he could, he did retire. Sometimes I think that is when he truly began to live. Feeding the birds and the squirrels. Watching the weather. Fussing over the tomatoes and planting enough corn for the neighborhood. Time on his tractor. Taking his “gun for walk” which was what Mom said when he went hunting. Nightly fires in the woodstove in his basement lair; or outside, in some make-shift grill or roadside find.

Dad finally had time and space to breath; to go antiquing and collecting with Mom; to pour over gardening catalogs and watch documentaries. To spend time with the grandkids; and harden; and then soften; his perspective on the world.

What have I missed? Dad loved food; like LOVED food. Mostly hot (not spicy, just straight off the stove; Mom blamed this on his kitchen table growing up being two steps from the stove). He believed in God. He served many years in prominent roles at Trinity Tower United Methodist Church; though later in life the church humans got in the way of the blessings of the ritual. I remember weekly church services as a child, fraught with dressing up and getting there on time; him having one more thing that he was responsible for. Honestly, did the man get any days off during those years? But he went seeking the cleansing of his soul, just as his Mom had taught him; sitting and listening to the sermon and cleaning the garden dirt out from under his fingernails with his pocket knife.

He had many long-term friendships and was always helping people out. He loved to tease and laugh and was well known for mis-remembering words and names; and for being hilariously inappropriate. My personal favorite was when he went to the store asking for James Mason wine (it was Paul Masson).

Also; these last few years were rough. Selling his beloved Eden in Murrysville to move to Indiana. Taking care of Mom, which required skills that he had never had time to cultivate. Lots of medicine for various ailments, which I guess helped him to live longer, but also seemed to take away some of his essence. There was still time to grow garlic, feed the birds and enjoy time on the deck. But I feel like his was a late dawning of the understanding of age and time and the regrets it can bring.

What I remember most of this last year of time with him is this: a persistent care and concern for us -- his kids and grandkids. He was really proud of all of us, and grateful that we were all thriving. I remember care and deep patience for Mom. A concern for Mother Nature and the state of the Earth. I remember him apologizing often for not being a better conversationalist. I will remember him still being a snappy dresser. And I remember him blessing us at the end of each phone call: “May the Lord Bless and Keep You and Make His Face to Shine Upon You and Be Gracious to You and Give You Peace.”

Dad, remember your goodness and your light. Hold to the truth that you left the World a better place than you found it. Be a good a loving angel and guide to us all.

We promise to continue your legacy of valuing education and family. Of being good stewards of nature. Of valuing hard work. And we promise to be people who can really appreciate a damn good meal and a cold beer.

Dad; we Love you.