Papa, Can You Hear Me: Seven Kids – With Seven Dad Stories

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an intergenerational encounter

It was the early 90s. I was in my mid-twenties. My father called me out of the blue and asked me if I would be willing to take a road trip with him to visit his dad, my 95-year-old Grandpa Bill in Bradenton, Florida, using my car. Grandma Thelma had been admitted to a nursing home and Grandpa was not handling it well emotionally.   

There were reasons to be nervous. Dad and I had never taken a major road trip with just the two of us before.  And every family road trip we ever took had one thing in common. Dad did the driving, full stop.  He had to be in a semi-conscious state from trying to drive 15 hours straight, starting at 2 in the morning, to let Mom take over for even an hour or two. Using my car changed the power dynamic and implied that I would be doing at least a good portion of the driving. We’re talking over 1,200 miles over two days.  Would we survive this without permanent scarring?

Though I had no idea how it was going to go, I agreed to do the trip with him. For the most part it went smoothly. He had plenty of notes to share regarding my driving, and when he did get on my nerves at one point, I asked him to back off, and he actually did. My brother Mike flew in from Denver and met us in Florida. 

When the three of us arrived at Grandpa’s house, we found him in a sad state. He was not used to being without Thelma, even though she wasn’t very far away. He wasn’t allowed to drive any more after an unfortunate experience involving a brick wall, and his opportunities to see her were limited. I remember him holding a picture of her in a heart-shaped frame and nearly crying as he said how much he missed her. 

We headed to the nursing home to visit Grandma. Dad asked me if I would be willing to play the piano for the residents while we were there. I wasn’t sure how this came about, but knowing my dad, I’m sure he found a way to set that up. I played for about an hour, and at one point, Dad asked me if the two of us could sing “You Are My Sunshine” together. I said sure, and to my amazement, as I sang the melody, Dad jumped in with a spot-on harmony and hung with me note for note. Where did that come from? My dad was not trained as a musician, and I had no idea he could do that. He said he learned it in the Navy and it was the only harmony he knew. Mind blown.

That night, we took Grandpa out to dinner at a place called the Seafood Shack. My Grandpa told lots of stories that we had never heard, and it was pretty awesome. I remember sharing this with Dad later, and he said, “well, who knows how many of those are true.” Coming from my dad, who never met a story he couldn’t embellish, I found this funny. As Dad walked arm and arm with Grandpa to help him as we left the restaurant, Grandpa said “I think that waitress was hitting on me”. Dad got really upset and fired back “she was NOT hitting on you.” We all probably get annoyed at things our dad says and does, and I certainly had my share of those experiences. It was, let’s say, interesting seeing Dad in the reverse role.

In the years to come, I witnessed him being a good son and taking care of Grandpa as best he could long distance. My dad had his issues with his dad and they weren’t particularly close, but when he was needed the most, Dad was there. A few years later, many of us in the family returned to Florida to celebrate Grandpa’s 100^th birthday. He passed away just months later. 

Dad is no longer with us in the earthly sense, but this Father’s Day, I will think of him and those tight harmonies he laid down and Grandpa’s smiling face. And I am sure that I will embellish a story or find some way to embarrass my daughter at some point in the day, carrying on a great family tradition. 

I can’t think of a better tribute.

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it’s fine

One thing I noticed as a kid was that my dad ate everything. Even if he didn’t like something, he ate it. If a piece of fruit was going a little bad, he’d give it a shot. “It’s fine.”

I’m guessing that a big part of this mentality came from his days as a soldier in Vietnam. Starving in the jungle and watching your friends die probably gives you a new perspective about the riches of domestic life back home. And about the foolishness of waste.

I came to take on this particular trait of his. Not only will I try anything given to me, I will always make sure to finish whatever is given to me. I hate wasting food. 

It’s fitting, then, that when my mom was clearing out a cupboard some years after their divorce, she found my dad’s old MRE box he had saved from the Vietnam days. She told me she was going to throw it out, but I said no. I didn’t want to waste it. So we opened up the 35-year-old package and took out the food items. Crackers. Peanut butter. Chocolate bar. And, saying a silent thank you, I ate them all.

How was it?

It was fine.

Thanks, Dad.

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one picture says it all

So glad that my dad lived long enough to wear this shirt with pride! 

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maine

My parents first home together after they married was on the third floor of an apartment across the street from a church. The steeple was directly outside their window. 

I might not have this timeline correct but here’s how I remember it being told to me. Shortly after the wedding, my dad was drafted into the Army. He reported to Fort Dix in New Jersey for basic training. My mom stayed behind in Maine. 

A few months into his two year stint, he got a three day pass, wrote “Maine” on a piece of cardboard and started hitchhiking. It was December so it was cold, and once he got into Maine, his sign wasn’t specific enough to help but it was all he had so he used it, and it got him home.

That was the weekend I was conceived. Whether they heard church bells ringing or angels singing is none of my business.

Dad hitchhiked back to the base but didn’t make it back before roll call. When his name was called, one of his buddies said, “Present” and the sergeant was none the wiser. Private Bois was accounted for by lights out that night. So, yes, I’m technically an AWOL baby.

Weeks later, Dad had to take a test required for all privates and he saw his sergeant waiting to take the test, too. “Gee, Sarge,” he said,” What are you doing here?” 

“Shh,” the sergeant said quietly, “I’m taking the test for Johnson.” I really don’t know if the name was Johnson but it was some private who had failed the test a few times and needed to pass. Dad nodded and kept his mouth shut.

Weeks later, he received notice that he was going to be transferred to a base in Germany. That meant that he wouldn’t be around for my birth or much of my first year. I presume the Army didn’t ship the wives and children of privates to foreign countries. My dad was heartbroken about it and Mom wasn’t exactly happy either. It would be tough for her without him and he hates to feel helpless.

Before he shipped out, however, he was called to testify in the sergeant’s court martial. He would have to say under oath that, yes, the sergeant took the test for someone else. Having to appear in court in New Jersey meant that he couldn’t go to Germany. 

He was reassigned to a desk job at Fort Dix. My mom moved down, either on base or nearby. That’s why I was born in New Jersey and not Maine. Or Germany. 

And it might explain why Dad will hold a baby, no matter whose it is, for as long as the parents will allow.

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joltin’ joe and dad

My dad was bluegrass, gospel, and country to the bone. He disliked everything that my sister and I listened to growing up. That is, he disliked everyone except Simon and Garfunkel. He generally had a kind word for them whenever they showed up on the radio or the little record player that we had in the little music room between our bedrooms. It took us literally years to figure out the reason that he had a soft spot for them, even though he never listened to them by choice. Then one day, while listening to “Mrs. Robinson” for the thousandth time or so, the truth finally dawned. He liked them, because they liked Joe DiMaggio. He just couldn’t find a critical word to say about someone who admired “Joltin’ Joe”.

If there was one thing Dad loved more than bluegrass music, it was baseball. And out of all baseball players of all time, his favorite was Joe DiMaggio. He had actually gotten to see the great man play one time towards the end of his career. As a young teenager, Dad had snuck out on farm work to hitchhike sixty miles to see the Yankees play an exhibition game against a local minor league team.

Until the day he died, Dad could remember the exact motion of DiMaggio’s swing as he connected with the ball, and he could still see it in his memory. Whenever he described it, he got a faraway look in his eyes, and I knew he was seeing it all over again. I called Dad the day Joe DiMaggio died. He said, “He was a classy guy and a great ballplayer.”

My dad’s dreams of professional baseball were ended by a car accident, but he continued to play baseball, and later softball, until he was well into middle age. When he died, one of his former teammates spoke to me at the funeral. He gave me a hug and said, “Your dad was a classy guy and a great ballplayer.” I thought, “You and Joe, Dad…”

“…You and Joe.”

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and stood, he did

My dad served in the military. He was a Navyman. Even stationed on a submarine during the Vietnam War.

Only thing is, you would never know it.

To this day, he doesn’t talk about it. It’s not that he isn’t proud of his service. My dad has just always been the reserved type. He doesn’t want attention of any kind, let alone the commendative kind that comes with recognizing military veterans.

As a kid, I couldn’t appreciate these finer details. All I knew was that it was the week of Veterans Day. And when the preacher asked for all veterans to stand so we could recognize them, my dad would not do it. “Does not compute!” my little brain told me.

This routine continued for another two or so Veterans Days. At this point, I guess I had communicated my confusion to my mom. So finally when the preacher again asked any veterans in attendance to stand, my mom looked over at my dad.

“Ed, I think Logan would like it if you stood.”

And stood he did. My dad and I have grown since those years. We’ve grown apart politically and religiously, but during this other special holiday occasion I can still turn to those memories of gentle family dynamics…

…. And smile.

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he gave us an important lesson

My siblings and I have a dysfunctional relationship with my dad. But he gave us an important lesson:

Jazz and big band are great torture devices.

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Thanks to all for sharing their stories.

Happy Father’s Day to all fathers everywhere, from tnocs.com .

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