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Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's Bête Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com
Monday, August 14, 2006
DADHe was always happy to see you. A warm, genuine person. Not only loving toward his family, but, when we were growing up, all of our friends too. In the days before and after his death we all had friends tell us that he was more “there” for them than their own fathers. This didn’t surprise me.
*
In high school he hated my rock band. Hated the music. He loved swing, a few Michigan songs, maybe a few church hymns, and bawdy songs. He liked Spike Jones.
But he seriously gave me the impression that he was happy for me that I was rockin’ with my buds. Like, he was proud of me, even. That I was doing something to make myself happy, that I was doing something.
When my brother hosted a reunion party for my high school band 5 or 6 years ago, we convened from the west coast and the east coast, rehearsed that afternoon, and played a set, to dozens of our friends and family members. Dad got tipsy and made a rambling sentimental speech after our set. He still hated the music. But he was happy.
*
An excellent sailor. He raced the Chicago-to-Mackinaw race twice, crewing for a friend. He taught me to sail. We raced together for several years. Once during a thunderstorm we had to throw anchor at the nearest shore and swim in. He happened to know the people at whose house we came ashore. I was 11 or 12. They gave us hot chocolate and cookies.
*
Sledding.
*
He loved to hunt, and, when he was younger, fish. I regret not having hunted and fished with him more. I only hunted with him once. We didn’t get anything.
*
When, in the ‘70s, soccer started sweeping the country, my sister’s early-elementary-age team needed a coach. He knew nothing about soccer but when nobody else volunteered he became the coach, wearing a goofy red conductor’s-style cap with big white polka dots to all the games. He yelled at all the kids out of enthusiasm, not in an intimidating way but excited, and he hugged all the boys and girls too.
*
Whenever anybody was in the hospital he went every day.
*
He was old school in a lot of ways. He grew up in the funeral business, helping his dad from teen-age years. His brother inherited the business, and then his nephew when his brother died 5 and a half years ago. My cousin handled the funeral, and the minister was a lifelong friend of the family’s, the minister of my parents’ church. Dad wanted his body in the church for the service, and he wanted my mom’s cousin’s husband with the big beautiful baritone voice to sing “Taps” as he got carried out. It tore me to shreds. Dad, where had you been hiding your magnificent theatrical sense all these years? But this wasn’t cathartic; the emotions weren’t purged. This was real. Still, I’m glad we did it his way.
*
My brother and sister and I all spoke at the funeral, and we all choked up.
*
About 300 people came, either to the viewing the night before, or to the funeral, or both. I saw friends I hadn’t seen in years. It was nice. And emotionally draining. Lots of laughs though too. An old friend told me that when his mother died (I loved her when we were kids), they found an old Army uniform. She had been a WAVE in WW2. She had gotten commendations and awards, and she had never told her kids. She wasn’t ashamed, but she was so anti-war that she didn’t want her kids to know. The only big revelation we’ve found so far about Dad was a picture of him in a bubble bath. The bubbles completely covered him up to his neck, so we put it on a picture board for the viewing.
*
Between church and sailing and hunting, he had a lot of contacts. Plus a lot of our childhood friends came to the events. And a number of his.
*
His impish sense of humor. Coming on nine years ago, when my beloved spouse and I had not been dating very long and before she had met anybody in my family, we were Christmas shopping together and she suggested I buy a magnetic gold-stud earring for my dad. I hesitated but went for it. Christmas morning, Dad opened the little box and chuckled to himself, as if he knew what he would do with it. Christmas dinner was always with his extended family.
That afternoon we got to Dad’s brother’s house and my cousins were in the driveway, welcoming people. Dad took out his earring, said to my cousins, “I’m going to freak your old man out,” and put it on his earlobe. A moment later my uncle came out with his warm and happy Merry Christmases for us all, shaking our hands, until he gets to Dad, “Merry Christmas, Mike,” and then he sees the earring, turns ashen, and without a word spins around and walks back into the house. He and my dad’s uncle didn’t talk to my dad for a couple of hours, until someone let them in on the joke. My cousins laughed hard.
*
Laughter and tears preparing for the funeral. I miss him, and I will continue to miss him.
Comments:
What a beautiful tribute to a wonderful man. I never knew him, but you've made me miss him too.
# posted by 
: 7:44 AM
: 7:44 AM
The most vivid memories I have of your dad are from when we were small and you lived on Cherry Street. I remember him making us homemade chunky wooden toys in his woodshop. I remember bouncing off his amazing belly. I remember his broad smiling face and a laugh that never waited for the sentence to end, transforming the last words into upward singing guffaws. Riding us around in that big, wood-veneer-sided station wagon.
When we were under-aged teenage rockers, he gave us rides and chaperoned, and backed us up when that club in Niles stiffed us.
JSG
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When we were under-aged teenage rockers, he gave us rides and chaperoned, and backed us up when that club in Niles stiffed us.
JSG
# posted by : 8:43 AM
: 8:43 AM