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.