Dad

I loved my father very much, but I am having a hard time finding happy memories of him to share. I'm sure there were many, but only the embarrassing or angry ones come to mind.A psychic once told me he had a very difficult childhood. Living in the Providence Irish "hood", I'm not surprised. We learned recently that his mother was really his grandmother. He wasn't left on the doorstep after all like we were always told. I grew up thinking we didn't know that side of the family biologically, but now we know we were led astray. The people we got to know really were our blood family. I find that fact very comforting.

He was the bomber for Jimmy Stewart in WWII. I always admired him for being in the war with a celebrity. As far as I know, he was never injured and came home with an honorable discharge. My brothers have all the papers and certificates attesting to his military achievement. I am proud of his service.

He met my mother on Hampton Beach in New Hampshire when she was about nineteen and he was in his late twenties. My sister, Jeanne, has a beautiful picture of them on that beach. They were a really beautiful and happy-looking young couple. That picture always brings a smile to my face and to my heart. They had a lovely wedding at The Women's Club in Newton Highlands, Massachusetts, and looked so handsome and beautiful. Jeanne gave us each a framed, blown-up picture from their wedding one Christmas. I treasure mine, as I'm sure all my siblings do theirs.

My father's favorite saying was, "Don't let them shut it off or take it away." That's how this "live in the moment" guy ran our family and trained us. We lived beyond our means, but we had things no other family had like a swimming pool: first above-ground; then in-ground. The pools were a wonderful way for us to be together as a family and bring our friends home.

Other family outings included day trips to Ashland State Park, when my mother packed a huge picnic lunch and we played by the pond, swimming and running around all day. In the early years, our parents took us to the drive-in movies. My father hated  indoor theater, so the drive-in was the only way my mother or any of us would get to see a movie with him. It was really fun. Most of the time, we fell asleep in the back of the station wagon before the movie was over.

There were several years we rented a house for a week on Rexhame Beach in Marshfield, MA, or "U Need A Week" cottage on a lake in New Hampshire. I have so many fond memories of those vacation weeks, picking blueberries, playing in the sand and waves, hanging indoors on rainy days playing with my "Colorforms", or swimming in the lake and having ice delivered for our "ice box" by the ice man. Many times, our grandparents, Gummy and Papa, joined us. Those were wonderful days. We still have silent, black & white, home movies of Rexhame Beach that make us laugh every time.

I guess there are more happy memories than I first remembered. My father was an unhappy man in his heart; angry, but incredibly intelligent. He never graduated high school, but loved to lecture us when he got drunk. He was an alcoholic, and life with him was not easy to say the least. But, he was a loving man. He loved babies. He couldn't get enough of them. When after thirteen pregnancies and twelve children, my parents stopped having them, he got tremendous pleasure from the next generation, "Give me that baby!", he'd growl and sit with it on his chest contentedly for hours. He'd smile and watch television, while each baby slept on his chest happily.

He did the best he could with what he had. He was a hard worker. He always had more than one job. He was a "live hard; die young" kinda guy. He died of a burst heart aneurysm in his sleep at age fifty-seven, a year after my brother, Paul, died from viral meningitis. His heart broke when Paul died, and I believe that was the beginning of his end. As the oldest, I was the substitute father when Dad wasn't around. A lot was expected of me, and I learned early on to be a parent. My father learned by doing, and so do I. He took risks, and taught us to do the same. Only in taking risks does one learn and grow. But he took chances as well. He lived unsafely, and had lots to prove to the world. I loved him, but I also hated him. Hate is a very strong word. I didn't hate him, I just resented his extreme behavior and he made me very angry. His drunken behavior was embarrassing, and I resented that too. But he was a sad man. My heart aches for him.

I had a dream a year or so after he died. He came into my bedroom, leaned against the radiator with arms folded across his chest looking very sad, shaking his head back and forth and said, "I really fucked up." I took this to mean in his life. But, I believe in life after death. I believe he has been reborn in my nephew, Michael. Michael is doing very well now. He is married, owns his own home and seems very happy. Knowing Mike is happy, makes me believe my father is finally happy. That fact makes me happy.

I love you Dad. Thanks for everything. I learned a lot from you and I really appreciate it. I hope you are happy now. I have to believe you are.