My Dad

A true gentleman is rare these days. A gentle man even more so. How lucky we were that our dad was both.

It didn’t matter if we were headed to Communion at mass or going into the Pizza Hut for dinner, Dad always, always let his girls go first. Even when he was having such a hard time getting around these past few months, sometimes even using his walker, he’d reach over to hold the door so we could go through before him. We’d say, “We’ve got it, Dad. You go on.” But he’d reply, “After you.” I know anyone who saw us out must have thought he had some terrible daughters. What they should have thought was that those girls had one exceptional dad.

We knew Dad loved us because he told us every day. One of the last things he said in the hospital was, “I love you. I love all of you.” He was never harsh with us or yelled. If we were getting out of line, all he had to do was say, “Hey,” and we knew he meant business.

Our dad was kind to everyone from old people to little children. He loved babies and could soothe one in a matter of seconds. He just had the touch, and babies knew it was okay when they were in my dad’s arms. Same with the elderly. He would offer his arm and slow to meet their pace and talk and smile as they got wherever they needed to go.

He was a man of principle. He would not do anything that was questionable or wrong. He was one of the men at church who actually counted the collection in the basement after mass and then drove it to the bank to deposit it in the drop box. He spoke up for what was right and held fast to his beliefs: Go to mass every Sunday, even on vacation. Take care of the poor. Don’t judge others. Always tell the truth. Buy American. Vote the Democratic ticket. He was never rude or pushy or forced us to follow him blindly, but we knew where he stood. The first time Kirk and I bought something other than a Chevy, I felt badly, but after we bought a Toyota, I went down and apologized!

He was always asking what he could do for us. He drove us everywhere when we were kids. We knew we could count on him to take us to the skating rink on Friday night and pick up five friends along the way. He would take us aside and ask if we needed any money and then slip us a couple of dollars to spend that night. My Uncle Jim remembered Dad always asking, “Can I get you anything?” If he had it to give, it was yours. No questions asked.

He came to every ball game, every play, every parent teacher conference. Whether he was watching Colleen or me sit on the bench or watching Jennifer catch fly balls in left field, we knew Dad was there, cheering us on.

His blue eyes had a twinkle that let you know he was up to something. He loved to joke and kid around and make people laugh. It was only after Mom died that that twinkle began to fade. I’d catch a glimpse of it every now and again when he was with his grandchildren, and I’d be whisked back to my childhood and the stories he’d tell that might start with something like, “And there I was, 30,000 feet above the ground and no parachute! What was I gonna do?”

The gentle man that Dad was began to become apparent to me one Christmas when I was about 10. That year, on his own, he contacted the parish and asked if there was a family who might need some groceries. He went to Kroger by himself and came home with bags and bags of food for this family. Canned ham. Tuna. Peanut butter. Crackers. Coffee. Spaghetti and sauce. Eggs. Bacon. All the food they needed was in these bags. What impressed me most, though, was he also filled the bags with food they didn’t need like Oreos and Captain Crunch and Pop Tarts and potato chips. Things that they would surely want but probably couldn’t afford. He did this every year, eventually taking us with him to help pick out the goodies, making this a tradition for us. My family has tried to do the same, but I am just not as faithful as my dad was.

And speaking of faithful, his devotion to our mother was beyond compare. I never realized how deeply he loved her until she got so sick after her final surgery. I can still picture him walking to her room in the hospital, the newspaper tucked under his arm, as he made his daily trip downtown to sit with her for hours and hours. I never heard him complain or get frustrated that he had to go to the hospital one more time. He was there, every single day, to be with my mom.

And then when she finally went home with Hospice, I watched in amazement as this man, who rarely changed a diaper, learned to crush Mom’s medication and mix it with her TPN and feed her through a tube in her stomach. He learned how to fill syringes with saline and flush her IV lines and deliver medicine that way too. He cleaned up after her when she threw up and emptied her catheter bag and helped her brush her teeth. Whatever she needed, if he could get it for her, he did.

This past September, Colleen and I joined Dad in St. Louis for his 60th high school reunion. He had gone to boarding school in Wisconsin, and we were anxious to get the scoop on what our Dad was like when he was a teenager. To find out what kind of trouble he’d gotten in. How much mischief he’d made in high school. We were sorely disappointed. Every man we talked with told us something you already know. One of Dad’s best friends in high schools said it best when he answered, “John was just one of the nicest guys I ever met.”

When I emailed Dad’s high school friends about his passing, they all commented on what a wonderful guy he had been. One of his friends called Dad “One of "God's Noblemen”.”

Another sent this response,

“By some intuition, from long, long ago, Fitz knew how to live.... by loving all people of God's creation...not in any overt showy, or superficial way, but from within, quietly, reverently, gratefully.
Through all of God's creation and creatures we get a glimpse of God. From some, we get a better glimpse, and from some of God's special friends we get quite a wonderful view that leaves us in awe. So, the adjective "awesome" is what I sense in reflecting God's gift to us in his gentle son, John.”