you might be wondering why i have on an oversized burberry trench, and fur vest. two items that just happen to be two articles of clothing that belonged to my father. do i wear them? yes, i do. every time i put them on i can’t help but think about my dad who has been gone for twenty-six years. and i miss him. every day.
my dad was not a perfect man, he had his demons to face as each of us do. he was the youngest child out of a brood of seven, entering this world smack dab in the middle of the depression. WWII was his backdrop as a child and he watched from the sidelines as his older brothers went off to war. according to Dad, he owned one pair of overalls, walked three miles to school in the freezing snow, and whiled away many an hour playing pitch. he could skip a rock straight across a lake, clean a chicken bone down to nothing, and sink a three-point shot from center court before they came into existence, he was ‘bucked’ down to private in the marine corps more than once, worked his way through university on the g.i. bill while starting his family, and landed his first job with conoco after graduation. he adeptly navigated through corporate america, with a string of sales, and management jobs before ending up as an investment banker. he could spin a yarn that held your rapt attention, tell a joke that would make your sides split, and was able to laugh at himself as well as others. he held no mercy when it came to sports or games, and was always out to win, even if pitted against his seven-year old daughter – his only daughter. he knew how to ‘dicker’ wore ‘skivvies’, and called my brother ‘buckwheat,’ my precious nickname that i haven’t heard in far too long was ‘muffet.’
sadly, my dad was struck down by cancer at the age of forty-five, but he gave a good fight for ten years. during that time he and my Mom travelled extensively, walked down the aisle with me by his side, and welcomed two of my sons into the world. i wish he were here to see how they’ve grown into young men, i wish he could have met my youngest, and i wish he could see how his ‘muffet’ is doing now.
i miss you, Pops, each and every day. thank you for the love you gave. and thank you for the lessons you taught about life.