My dad has been dead for a long time. I still think about him every day, but the grief has softened, and I am left with confusion. Not about the big important things like how much he loved his family, the way he always had a wise word to offer or the fact that his youngest daughter was his favorite. That said, he told everyone they were his favorite. He was a charmer—that’s for sure. He also had a few interesting quirks.
My dad was a roofer. He owned the company, but he still came home tired from going up and down ladders. He would get a quick shower and then it was time for him to relax with his two beers before dinner. When I finished kindergarten, my dad started sharing his beer with me. We would sit on the back porch, I would grab an orange juice glass, and he would pour me a few swigs. If this happened now, CPS would be called, but this was in the ’60s when kids roamed free.
My dad was a big guy, and there the two of us would sit, side by side and talk about our days. Just like we were two guys hanging out at a bar. It was special and made me feel important because, when you come from a family where you are the youngest of six, there was not a lot of one-on-one time with your parents. This tradition went on for as long as I can remember, including when I was old enough to actually open my own beer. I can’t really remember what we talked about, but I can remember feeling oh-so-important.
My father also had a very interesting way of dressing, much to my mother’s consternation. As long
as the colors matched, it was fine to wear stripes with plaids. One of his favorite outfits was a red and blue striped polo with plaid pants that were red, white and blue. He was a fashion disaster, and I can still remember my mom telling him, “Jack, you cannot go out of the house like that!” I still have a picture of him in that outfit that makes me smile. I often wondered if he was just a little crazy when it came to clothes or if he was doing it to make all of us roll our eyes.
My dad never met a person he did not want to talk to. Going out with him in public could sometimes be embarrassing. He would talk to the person in front of him at the drugstore, waiting in line meant an opportunity to make new friends. He had a quick wit and a dry sense of humor. As a kid, I would dread these encounters. People minding their own business, but my dad just had to chat them up. Well, I now do the very same thing. I cannot stand in line, go to a restaurant or be anywhere without trying to engage people with some comment. Most people look at me and see an older woman who clearly must be lonely, and they oblige with a word back, but put me next to anyone over the age of 75 and we’ll be best friends in no time.
I still think when I grow up I want to be just like my dad. Peace my Peeps.