Awhile ago, Pasordan posted a diary to which I posted a comment asking people to pray for my father's peace and easy going. We are burying him Friday. For those who prayed (or even wished us well), I wanted you to know that he passed peacefully, without any pain and so easily; In his bed, at home, with his children and grandchildren next to him. I thank you all. Nothing will make his loss anything but a tragedy for me and my family, but I am endlessly grateful for the way he went. I believe that your prayers made a differenc.I don't want to rope you into my own grief, but I do want you to know a little about my dad. If you're interested, come with me.
He was the quintessential democrat. With a small d. He was first generation Italian, born of immigrant parents, who didn't learn English until he went to school. He used to tell me that he didn't know how the teacher did it. An English speaking teacher surrounded by kids whose first and only language was Italian, Polish, German and so on. Her only language was English. And yet they learned and no one questioned their citizenship, their patriotism or their intentions. You can imagine my take on the current immigration bruhaha.
My father was born on February 15, 1928. He was a depression baby. He couldn't understand how, in current America, we have schools in a state of complete disrepair, without even the remedial resourcers to get done what needs doing. In his school, if the window was broken, it was repaired the same day. They had the books they needed, frayed but functional. They learned their lessons. His constant question for contemporary state governement and its support of schools was: where is all the money going? We had nothing and yet all of our basic needs were met. What is wrong now? From this I learned that you don't need fancy but you do need structure and dedication.
When he became a man, he joined the navy at the tail end of WWII. He rode a tug boat across the ocean to China. Really, a tug boat. I have the picture. He served his country and never questioned that his country served him. He was horrified by what the government has done to our current soldiers. He thought they were cretins and monsters. From him I learned that you take care of those who take care of you.
My father, born in Detroit, went to work for Ford Motor Company. He had no college but, eventually, took some vocational courses. He started on the line at Ford. He was accepted into the apprentice program and retired as a Superintendent. He won two cars for excellence. When he retired at age 55, he was called and offered a consultant position at the glass house in Dearborn. He could make his own hours and they offered him an exhorbitant amount of money. He laughed and politely declined. From that I learned that money is not the measure of worth. However, the offer still fills me w/ pride.
My parents were divorce when I was 6. My father was very dedicated and took us on his assigned days and whenever else he could get us. I mean, literally, whenever. He used to take us to the airport to watch planes take off, for drives in the country and to downtown Detroit where he grew up. I remember pushing through the revolving doors. Loved that. One night he took us down to walk around amongst the newly hung Christmas lights. My dad was not a big guy, about 5'7. He had us three kids, it was night and riots were not a distant memory but right there. As we walked, a very large, clearly inebriated black man came stumbling up and fell into my father. My dad helped him steady himself and asked if he was alright. The man was slurring his words but rushed to assure my father that he was not ok. His wife had just left him for another man. He poured his grief out to my father as I huddled near my dad's leg, feeling unutterably sad for this poor man, and my father just talked to him. He finally told him that he, too, was recently divorced, and that things would get better. Just hang on. Nothing too profound. Just one human being comforting another. At the time, nothing about what my father did struck me as unusual or out of the ordinary. Now I know better. I remembered that night because of that man's profound sadness. Now I treasure it because my father, without saying a word, taught me that human beings are there for other human beings. Such a simple thing and yet so beyond the grasp of so many.
There are many other things I could tell you. This was meant to be a thank you, not a love letter. I think, though, that maybe the lessons he taught me are some the whole world could stand to learn.
Thanks for your prayers. Thanks for reading my love note.
Peace.