I didn't want the last entry to get too long (heh, heh...) but I want to get these down before I forgot.
My grandfather
I never met my paternal grandparents. They died before, or shortly after, I was born, I don't recall. This is purely secondhand, but the force is stron... er, the "McCann personality" apparently breeds very true.
See, my grandfather was in charge of some of the municipal "stuff" in South Milwaukee. I don't know just what his title was or job was, but apparently he took care of things like the fire hydrants and garbage cans. No, not a trash collector... let me explain.
He had a clever way of taking care of problems. At one point, the fire hydrants needed to be repainted - typical maintenance. At the time (50s, perhaps?) this would have cost $3000 to do.
Well, my grandfather had a contest, with a few categories, for the residents to decorate the fire hydrants - most artistic, funniest, most unusual, six categories with $50 prizes.
All the fire hydrants got repainted, all in their own unique ways. They gave that bit of the city its own look, got the community involved (and having fun,) and saved money. That, grandpa, is a win... Even hearing about it decades later, I'm impressed.
Also... garbage cans. This, apparently, told my mom everything she needed to know about my grandpa. She came into town from Missouri. Every garbage can was painted a different color - with "Why doesn't anybody use me?" stenciled on each and every one (as one word, apparently, though that may just have been stencil spacing.) Yep, colorful, somewhat humorous *garbage cans.*
I wish I'd gotten to meet you. Maybe next time 'round?
Though, it seems we have another trait in common. He didn't like to go out, didn't take some things that were offered to him (chance for better housing or whatnot) - unfortunately it affected my grandmother (I think he married twice, actually) as they never went out. He always had an excuse - not least being that people wouldn't leave him in peace if they went to dinner or whatever, wanting some political favor or other. Still... well, I'm a bit of a homebody too. And after his second (?) wife died... he closed in even more.
Having recently (well, coming on two years) divorced... I can kind of understand that, too. Still... he, too, did a decent job with my dad, aunts and uncles. I can't think of a bad one in the bunch - even if many have passed (like you, aunt Bev.)
He had some words for my dad at one point. See, I'm the youngest by a decade or so. My three brothers and my sister were born one right after the other. (Lots of big families - we were probably the second *smallest,* with my Uncle Pat and Aunt Maryann the smallest with just two daughters.) Regardless... four kids makes for a busy mom, and the kitchen, well...
Apparently my grandpa came to visit my mom and dad while she was busy scrubbing, trying to keep ahead in the kitchen. My dad was also home - and my grandpa esesntially told him "She's taking care of these kids and making food, you get down and scrub her floors!" My mom, laughing, agreed of course... As she put it, "It's something he (my dad) would conveniently forget, or deny, when it was brought up later."
(Busted, dad?)
He had a few for my uncle, too. See, Uncle Pat's the youngest of his family. In any case, he brought the girl (who would eventually be his wife, my aunt) home at one point, and my grandpa took an instant liking to her. (With her personality, smile, and laugh, it's hard not to.) He took my uncle aside and asked, "What are your intentions toward this young lady?"
Yes. His father. Not my aunt's father...
My uncle, telling this, just gets this half grin on his face... "Well, I was a young man, so, you know, wink, only ring I planned for anyone to get from me (my uncle) was one around their tub." I doubt he said that to his father, but the idea gets across. My grandpa told him "You marry that girl, today if you have to. Don't let her get away."
They've been married for ... 30-some years? High 30s?
Guess he knew what he was talking about.
My grandmother
I know even less about my dad's mom - or stepmom. I really don't have the timing down on this... and the only things I really hear from my mom about it were how she made her feel welcome, part of the family, and that she was a loving woman - and that she asked, specifically, for my mother when she was dying - and when she saw my mom's reaction, told my dad to take her out of the room so she wouldn't remember her like she was, sick in bed... not to be cruel, but kind...
She, I wish I'd known too.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Three years
It's been three years, this Thanksgiving, since I last saw my dad alive.
Yes, my dad. Not my "Father," though he is also biologically that. No, "Dad" fit him better. He was always Dad. The more personal, more intimate, warm term. He fit that perfectly.
He was, first and foremost, a parent, and a good one. He worked third shift at a factory, slept much of the day - but he always tried to be there for me. For good or bad - if I had a problem (or was in trouble,) he was there. He was something that it seems many with kids are not these days - a *parent.* He, and my mom, did indeed teach me right from wrong, that actions have consequences (good or bad,) to think before speaking, respect others and treat others as you would have them treat you. None of this "Be a friend to your child" - yes, he was that as well, easy (usually) to talk to, but a parent first and foremost.
He did his best to provide for us, and we had a thoroughly middle class upbringing :) This is not a bad thing. Not in the slightest. We had a nice house in a nice suburb. Violence? Being afraid to let us walk to and from school? You'd have to be kidding. We were, as a dear friend of mine and I discussed once, really sheltered. School violence? Foreseeing a day when schools would be locked down during the day, where metal detectors and guards were at the entrance, where parents drove their kids for their own safety? Never!
He gave me more, too. My sense of hummor is... well, a McCann trait. My uncles and aunts, most passed on, have it. His father apparently had it. And apparently if you meet any of my (mostly unmet by me) family... most of us are like that, or off raising hell somewhere.
He and my mom gave me a compassionate heart. I was too... soft for a while, for a lack of better description. My marriage hardened that, to where I listen to my heart and head, but let my head make the decisions. Still... my friends know they have someone who does care, who will listen, who will do whatever I can to help them out, be there for them, and try to share good and bad with them, helping through the rough and helping celebrate the wonderful.
I learned a bit about my dad tonight, despite him being gone for nearly three years now. I learned about his father, too, from my uncle, and bits and pieces about a southern woman coming to live in Milwaukee from my mom, just with bits and pieces about things like southern mashed potato salad versus the 'surprising' diced or sliced potatoes, or seeing people heavily butter bread instead of use mayo - it's things I never really think of, having run around the country as I have.
Three years ago was the last time my entire immediate family was together. We knew he was fading, that we didn't know how much time he had. My dad was stubborn about some things - something else I know I get from him - but in this case, it cost him his life, not going to a doctor when he should have, which let his prostate cancer spread and attack the rest of his body. I was... angry with him for a bit about that. Not so much as my mom, after he was gone, though she seems past that. Maybe remembering that will help me some day... though my problem with doctors is more one of money these days.
Three years ago, my father and mother made the trip to Wisconsin, almost not getting to. I was poor (still am,) living with very tolerant and understanding friends out in Oregon, watching my marriage fade away. They sent me a ticket, and off I flew, sleeping on my brother's couch for a week. Mom and dad were upstairs, and ... there was this man, this pillar of strength through my life, able only to talk quietly, move slowly, mostly sit through the day... but even then, you could see the love and caring in his eyes, hear it in his voice.
All I could do, when we talked alone once, was reassure him we'd be OK, that I loved him and that he should be proud of what he'd done with us, no matter what happened to us. Let him know that he was the best parent I could ever have asked for. He didn't want us upset.
Three years ago, on Thanksgiving, we all got our last pictures with him. I have mine on some CDs. Him, mom, and me. The two of them together. All my brothers and my sister, and each of us with our respective families - not having Leah there, and us not having any kids anyway... well, was appropriate, I can't think what I'd have done knowing that was falling apart.
Less than two months later, most of the family - not me, I couldn't afford to - was down in Florida, to say goodbye one more time, when he couldn't move from his bed, didn't seem to react to anything. I swear he was waiting for us to be together one last time... since I called when everyone else was down there, letting him know, again, it was all right, that we'd take care of mom, that he deserved to rest.... hours later, in the small part of the morning, he took his last breath and passed away, my oldest brother being there and awake to see it.
I love you, Dad, and miss you. I'm trying to help Mom - but, as it turns out, we're helping each other by turns, or so it seems. We're doing our best.
Still, this wasn't meant to be as... down as it's gotten. Let me tell what I'd learned about my dad. He'd apparently be annoyed with this story, honestly, but secretly I think he'd laugh as well. Or just deny it.
My dad was, in his own way, proud. Or stubborn. And I heard a story I'd never heard before. It seems my dad failed his first driver's test. Now, this in and of itself is not unique - many people do for one reason or another (for the record... not me. First try.) But, my dad being my dad... he failed it in a unique way.
He'd actually passed the entire test, parallel parking, the works, and was pulling in to the police station (where they got the licenses at the time.) This was an old Ford of some sort borrowed from his boy scout troop leader - brand new Ford four door, at the time. He was pulling into an alley, "150 feet away and he'd have parked and passed," according to my uncle Pat. Well, apparently there was a lady (I'm assuming a homeless person) who collected cans or some such in the area coming down that same alley pulling a cart. Well, he moved over a few inches to give her room.
Now, no, he didn't scrape the paint or anything. Let me describe what was in this alley. There was a large wooden pole - power or telephone or something - with a guide wire. A guide wire that ran down - and connected right by the curb.
Just where that car's bumper was.
You can imagine what's going to happen, can't you... He started into the alley, and this wire hooked under the bumper. Apparently the pole started bending. But, it didn't break... instead, it snapped back up, and flipped the car on its side.
They couldn't flip it back right way up. There wasn't enough room in the alley to do so - this new Ford sedan was now sitting on its side in an alley.
(Apparently my uncle was walking home from school at this point and saw it around this time. He thought the car that was on its side looked familiar. Then he saw my dad... "Jerry? What happened?" "We'll talk about it later." "But, Isn't that Mr.." "We'll talk about it LATER." Yep, that's my dad...)
In order to right this car, they had to *drag* it out of the alley before they could flip it right side up.... this new car...
Fortunately, other than the door handles being pushed in and the mirror being messed up, the car was fine - not even scuffed paint. (Try THAT today.)
.... but since it was an accident, he failed the drivers test... 150 yards or so to go.
Actually, I can understand him being close-mouthed about it. See, in the house I grew up in, over on Verdev Drive in Oak Creek, he worked up a little workshop in the basement with all his power tools and whatnot. He loved doing woodwork and whatnot down there.
He had it wired up a specific way, though - it shared a circuit with the laundry room. If one of his big tools stopped working, he'd look down the hall to see if the laundry room light was on or not to see if he'd tripped a breaker.
Well, one day he was working on something and his saw or something stopped. I was on the other side of the basement (not by the laundry room, "across the hall" essentially) building a model or some such. All I know is that he stopped working and didn't go upstairs.
Well, he was in the laundry room with a flashlight. When I finally went to look, so was my brother. And my mom. All going through the circuit breaker, trying to find what had tripped... so I turned on the light to help them.
He went out quietly. And I can imagine intensifying that "well, I should've checked" or "kick myself" look he had to what he must have looked like flipping that car...
I don't write this to diminish him in any way, or make fun of him... more that they were things that kept him human, and made me smile.
I mentioned learning about his father, who I never met, as well... but I'll have to add that later.
Yes, my dad. Not my "Father," though he is also biologically that. No, "Dad" fit him better. He was always Dad. The more personal, more intimate, warm term. He fit that perfectly.
He was, first and foremost, a parent, and a good one. He worked third shift at a factory, slept much of the day - but he always tried to be there for me. For good or bad - if I had a problem (or was in trouble,) he was there. He was something that it seems many with kids are not these days - a *parent.* He, and my mom, did indeed teach me right from wrong, that actions have consequences (good or bad,) to think before speaking, respect others and treat others as you would have them treat you. None of this "Be a friend to your child" - yes, he was that as well, easy (usually) to talk to, but a parent first and foremost.
He did his best to provide for us, and we had a thoroughly middle class upbringing :) This is not a bad thing. Not in the slightest. We had a nice house in a nice suburb. Violence? Being afraid to let us walk to and from school? You'd have to be kidding. We were, as a dear friend of mine and I discussed once, really sheltered. School violence? Foreseeing a day when schools would be locked down during the day, where metal detectors and guards were at the entrance, where parents drove their kids for their own safety? Never!
He gave me more, too. My sense of hummor is... well, a McCann trait. My uncles and aunts, most passed on, have it. His father apparently had it. And apparently if you meet any of my (mostly unmet by me) family... most of us are like that, or off raising hell somewhere.
He and my mom gave me a compassionate heart. I was too... soft for a while, for a lack of better description. My marriage hardened that, to where I listen to my heart and head, but let my head make the decisions. Still... my friends know they have someone who does care, who will listen, who will do whatever I can to help them out, be there for them, and try to share good and bad with them, helping through the rough and helping celebrate the wonderful.
I learned a bit about my dad tonight, despite him being gone for nearly three years now. I learned about his father, too, from my uncle, and bits and pieces about a southern woman coming to live in Milwaukee from my mom, just with bits and pieces about things like southern mashed potato salad versus the 'surprising' diced or sliced potatoes, or seeing people heavily butter bread instead of use mayo - it's things I never really think of, having run around the country as I have.
Three years ago was the last time my entire immediate family was together. We knew he was fading, that we didn't know how much time he had. My dad was stubborn about some things - something else I know I get from him - but in this case, it cost him his life, not going to a doctor when he should have, which let his prostate cancer spread and attack the rest of his body. I was... angry with him for a bit about that. Not so much as my mom, after he was gone, though she seems past that. Maybe remembering that will help me some day... though my problem with doctors is more one of money these days.
Three years ago, my father and mother made the trip to Wisconsin, almost not getting to. I was poor (still am,) living with very tolerant and understanding friends out in Oregon, watching my marriage fade away. They sent me a ticket, and off I flew, sleeping on my brother's couch for a week. Mom and dad were upstairs, and ... there was this man, this pillar of strength through my life, able only to talk quietly, move slowly, mostly sit through the day... but even then, you could see the love and caring in his eyes, hear it in his voice.
All I could do, when we talked alone once, was reassure him we'd be OK, that I loved him and that he should be proud of what he'd done with us, no matter what happened to us. Let him know that he was the best parent I could ever have asked for. He didn't want us upset.
Three years ago, on Thanksgiving, we all got our last pictures with him. I have mine on some CDs. Him, mom, and me. The two of them together. All my brothers and my sister, and each of us with our respective families - not having Leah there, and us not having any kids anyway... well, was appropriate, I can't think what I'd have done knowing that was falling apart.
Less than two months later, most of the family - not me, I couldn't afford to - was down in Florida, to say goodbye one more time, when he couldn't move from his bed, didn't seem to react to anything. I swear he was waiting for us to be together one last time... since I called when everyone else was down there, letting him know, again, it was all right, that we'd take care of mom, that he deserved to rest.... hours later, in the small part of the morning, he took his last breath and passed away, my oldest brother being there and awake to see it.
I love you, Dad, and miss you. I'm trying to help Mom - but, as it turns out, we're helping each other by turns, or so it seems. We're doing our best.
Still, this wasn't meant to be as... down as it's gotten. Let me tell what I'd learned about my dad. He'd apparently be annoyed with this story, honestly, but secretly I think he'd laugh as well. Or just deny it.
My dad was, in his own way, proud. Or stubborn. And I heard a story I'd never heard before. It seems my dad failed his first driver's test. Now, this in and of itself is not unique - many people do for one reason or another (for the record... not me. First try.) But, my dad being my dad... he failed it in a unique way.
He'd actually passed the entire test, parallel parking, the works, and was pulling in to the police station (where they got the licenses at the time.) This was an old Ford of some sort borrowed from his boy scout troop leader - brand new Ford four door, at the time. He was pulling into an alley, "150 feet away and he'd have parked and passed," according to my uncle Pat. Well, apparently there was a lady (I'm assuming a homeless person) who collected cans or some such in the area coming down that same alley pulling a cart. Well, he moved over a few inches to give her room.
Now, no, he didn't scrape the paint or anything. Let me describe what was in this alley. There was a large wooden pole - power or telephone or something - with a guide wire. A guide wire that ran down - and connected right by the curb.
Just where that car's bumper was.
You can imagine what's going to happen, can't you... He started into the alley, and this wire hooked under the bumper. Apparently the pole started bending. But, it didn't break... instead, it snapped back up, and flipped the car on its side.
They couldn't flip it back right way up. There wasn't enough room in the alley to do so - this new Ford sedan was now sitting on its side in an alley.
(Apparently my uncle was walking home from school at this point and saw it around this time. He thought the car that was on its side looked familiar. Then he saw my dad... "Jerry? What happened?" "We'll talk about it later." "But, Isn't that Mr.." "We'll talk about it LATER." Yep, that's my dad...)
In order to right this car, they had to *drag* it out of the alley before they could flip it right side up.... this new car...
Fortunately, other than the door handles being pushed in and the mirror being messed up, the car was fine - not even scuffed paint. (Try THAT today.)
.... but since it was an accident, he failed the drivers test... 150 yards or so to go.
Actually, I can understand him being close-mouthed about it. See, in the house I grew up in, over on Verdev Drive in Oak Creek, he worked up a little workshop in the basement with all his power tools and whatnot. He loved doing woodwork and whatnot down there.
He had it wired up a specific way, though - it shared a circuit with the laundry room. If one of his big tools stopped working, he'd look down the hall to see if the laundry room light was on or not to see if he'd tripped a breaker.
Well, one day he was working on something and his saw or something stopped. I was on the other side of the basement (not by the laundry room, "across the hall" essentially) building a model or some such. All I know is that he stopped working and didn't go upstairs.
Well, he was in the laundry room with a flashlight. When I finally went to look, so was my brother. And my mom. All going through the circuit breaker, trying to find what had tripped... so I turned on the light to help them.
He went out quietly. And I can imagine intensifying that "well, I should've checked" or "kick myself" look he had to what he must have looked like flipping that car...
I don't write this to diminish him in any way, or make fun of him... more that they were things that kept him human, and made me smile.
I mentioned learning about his father, who I never met, as well... but I'll have to add that later.
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