Thoughts of my father. Tuesday, September 28, 2004 6:06 AM
It has been a little over three years since my dad passed away. His heart stopped beating a week before 911, hardly having enough time to grieve before being confronted by another tragedy. His memoir seems to be echoed in ever event lately. The anniversary of the terrorist attack, transporting me back to the loss. He lived a long full life, dieing five year short of an even century. This first generation Irish boy raised on the banks of the Hudson River in New York with his nine other brothers and sisters. He learned the new contraptions, the automobile and later the sound recorder, moved into a career of motion picture sound recording with his brother when voices in the theaters were novel and movies were called talkies.
As the gray hairs gather on my head I gain more and more appreciation for this man. A man that I never had one heart felt conversation with. He is a man who has grown in his stature with each passing day. It was the death of my father that brought tears to my eyes. My mother left this earth three weeks before he did, and it was almost a relief to have her lying silently. She had had enough of life and wanted to meet her maker. My father loved life and even when the end was near he would struggle for each breath coping with the tubes and imposed quarantine. Lying out there on the gurney here was a man who worn out every ounce of his life. He was covered from head to tow with injuries as he careened through his world.
To give you an idea of the stamina of this man, at the age of 77 while bicycling in Central Park he flew over the handlebars only to pop up to his feet and suggest a trip to the hospital. He was not flashy, unless you consider the spotted plaid pants that he acquired from a widowed neighbor. He conserved his resources and was devoted to his wife. My mother was blind the last five year of her life and needed his care and drive. He was Irish, and from time to time sought escape in drink. He was indomitable, impossible to live with but he was alive. He was always active applying his deteriorated capabilities to the upkeep of their home in Florida. You would find him under the sink or out in the shed searching through his 60 year collection of nuts and bolts looking for the proper fit.
He and my mother survived in that free standing house for years, never willing to turn over his existence to other be it family or the state. I thought of him this morning as I looked up at my bathroom ceiling and saw the paint peeling. My father would have never stood for that. He would be up on a ladder. Now that the rewards of being cleaver are being exhausted for me it is time to roll up my sleeves and join the salt of the earth. Love you dad.