Memories of my Dad

Today is the second anniversary of my Dad’s death. Looking back at my life with him, I see how he has shaped me and how the things he taught me are ingrained in who I am as a person. His influence, married with my Mom’s, has made me a “tomboy girl”. That is a phrase I coined at lunch one day with a group of my AmFam co-workers. It means I am both a tomboy and a girlie girl. It means I like football and ballet. It means I am my parent’s child.

My Dad was a Marine, enlisting at 17, dropping out of high school to take his GED to be able to get in. He told me a few years ago that his score was so high that he was called in to retake the test; a little Stand and Deliver happening right there in my Dad’s life. He, of course, scored high again and off he went to become a Marine.  He was a drill instructor, in intelligence, did two tours in Vietnam, and retired 20 years later as a Captain.

Because my Mother was carrying me higher than she did my sister, my parents thought I was going to be a boy. “Michael Anthony” was chosen as my name and when I arrived, a premie, and a girl, it was my Dad who named me Susan. He was the disciplinarian in our home, but never someone who yelled. He didn’t need to. He said your name a certain way and it would freeze your blood. Or he would lecture you until you thought you would fall out of your chair from boredom. I was, um, a rowdy child. I was full of energy and pushed limits and most of the lectures my sister and I got, were because of something I did. My sister would give me the death stare thinking it unfair that she had to sit through my punishment. She was probably right. But those lectures lasted well into our high school years when an extra 20 minutes would be tacked on for an eye roll. For which I was Queen. Eye rolling, and as my sister has reminded me, door slamming.

On the occasions when we were spanked, we got a lecture before the spanking. The one that sticks out in my mind is when both my sister and I called a neighborhood kid a ni@@er. Now, we had no idea what we were saying. A bunch of the neighbor kids were all playing in our front yard and kids we didn’t know were calling us names. We were yelling names back when Kim Kelly, who had 3 older brothers, told us to call them ni@@ers. So we did. Loudly. My Dad appeared at our front door so fast and ordered my sister and I inside. The neighbor kids scattered like bowling pins and my sister and I knew something bad, very bad was about to happen. My sister went first while I waited in our bedroom. I heard the belt and her instant cry, then she came into our room. “Cry quick, it’ll be over faster,” she said. Now this confused me as my sister NEVER gave me advice. Was it a trick? My Dad said my name in that blood freezing way and I walked down the hall to where he was sitting. He looked upset, but not mad upset, sad upset. More confusion.

He took my hands and asked me the stock question. Did I know why I was there? I gave the stock answer. “I made you mad.” It covered all sorts of things when you didn’t know specifically why you were there. He sighed deeply with a furrowed brow. Another first. I furrowed my brow, too, wondering what the heck was going on.  My Dad then broke protocol and told me why I was there. I had said a very horrible word. He told me what that word meant and as he carefully explained it, tears welled up in my eyes. I was mortified, and horrified, and embarrassed, and tried, through my tears, to tell him I didn’t know what it meant. He squeezed my hands and said he knew I didn’t mean it but that because it was so serious, I would need to be spanked. I agreed and instantly bent over  his knees. Nothing happened. He kept talking about how this was going to be harder on him than it was me and his voice sounded funny while he said it. I patted his ankle as my tears dripped off my nose. He continued to speak and finally asked if I was ready. I snuffed out an “uh, huh” and felt the belt lightly strike my butt, I mean, it barely tapped me.  He paused. When I didn’t cry out he brought the belt down again, a little bit harder, but not enough to hurt, and as my confusion mounted, I continued to snuffle as before. As his hand went up again I heard him mutter, “Cry, dammit!” This time, I cried out and was instantly on my feet in my Dad’s arms crying on his shoulder. When I got back to my room, my sister looked at me in disgust. “I told you to cry faster.” For my Dad, he went to my parent’s bedroom and didn’t come out for a long, long time.

My love of sports comes from my Dad and some of my best memories are of watching football. We had a TV set; which means it was encased in wood and sat on the floor. It was a big, huge thing with speakers built on the side and, I believe, those glass grapes sitting on a doily on top. Since it was low to the ground, I would find my Dad lying on the floor, his head propped up on a couch pillow, watching football. When I tired of playing dolls with my always a girlie girl sister, I would find my way to the living room and lay down next to my Dad and put myself in the same position he was in. Usually with our left arms behind our heads and our right foot propped on our left knee. And he would teach me about football. Not just the game, but the players, my favorite being Bart Starr. When I was five, I asked for a football for Christmas, and remember shrieking for joy seeing that oddly wrapped ball under the tree. We have pictures of me in the backyard in my sweater set attempting to catch the football with my arms extended straight out, hands flexed upward in a clear blocking stance. My Dad was humorously proud and my Mom, well, was just relieved.

My Dad also loved to tease us. We would go to the Red Onion, our favorite Mexican restaurant in Anaheim, just a stones throw from our childhood Mecca, Disneyland, and he would say things like, “If you eat that hot chili I will take you to Disneyland!” I was always game, but my Mom, would put a stop to all those shenanigans. One Easter he took us into the backyard and growled at us to pick up the trash lying in the clover. As we stooped to pick it up, we found chocolate Easter eggs and my Dad smiling happily at his ruse.

My Dad had a weird/wacky sense of humor, which thankfully was given to my sister and not me. When America’s Funniest Home Videos first came out, oh my gosh, I’ve never seen my Dad laugh so hard or for so long. The clip of the Great Dane on a leash and he takes off running and the lady holding the leash goes horizontal? He laughed for days. Days.  My sister would send him birthday cards and the two of them would laugh and laugh while my Mom and I would just shake our heads at them. Stuff like that just cracked him up.

While my Dad liked being a Dad, he relished being a Grandfather.  Once Michael came along things with my Dad changed. First, he quit smoking, something he had done all my life. I have vivid memories of walking into our family room into a cloud of cigarette smoke. Yuck. But once he had a grandson, emphasis on son, the cigarettes were gone and he started planning my infant son’s future. To say that Michael and my Dad were close is an understatement. My Dad lavished things on Michael, things we would have never, ever seen. For his 7^th birthday my Dad got him a limo and had it come to Michael’s soccer game. The whole team piled in and off they went to McDonald’s. My Dad rode with the driver and gave him a big tip as that poor dude probably spent a good two hours cleaning it out and getting it presentable again. As Michael grew I couldn’t help but giggle once the lectures started. I would ask which one he got…how important good communication is or the one where he talks about being true to your word? Michael would roll his eyes (who knew that was hereditary?) and complain about how bored he was hearing them.  “You’re preaching to the choir, Son.” I’d say with a grin.

And Michael got stories we never did. I think my Dad just needed a boy to talk about war and some of his experiences in the military. Being in intelligence, there was a lot he couldn’t say, and I know he kept a lot bottled up, but Michael was an eager listener and I am glad they were able to share that together. In the last years of his life, my Dad did open up more and did share some stories and Michael would nod his head indicating he had heard the story before. As much as I miss my Dad, I grieve for Michael for the loss. To him, it is unspeakable, and not something I think he will get over. They had a relationship apart from the rest of us and it saddens me it is gone for him. My Dad was the one male role model who never let him down.

But I know this; my Dad is a part of each of us. With all his lectures and explanations about things, he was teaching us. All those stupid lectures did sink in because I try my best to have good communication and to be true to my word and I smile at the silly things that my Dad thought were so funny.  And as I remember him today, I am so thankful that he was my Dad. I am proud to be his daughter and I miss the way he stood up for me. We were never super close, but I always knew he loved me and I always knew that he knew who I was as a person. He knew my character, the thing those lectures were really about and truly, I wanted to have his character. His lessons live on and in those lessons his legacy. Not fame, not fortune, just to be known by your good character. For him, it was enough, and for me, the best way to thank him is to continue that same legacy.

So, on this day, I will drive myself to Pat’s, and toast my Dad with a chili dog and remember the story he always told about when he first ate Pat’s. 

Which was when he was a little boy over in what is now a vacant lot downtown when the dogs were served out of a cart. 

And wish he was here in person to tell it to me one more time.