Remembering Dad

My father's birthday just passed -- Saturday, April 27. He would have been 83. He passed away from cancer 20 years ago this past January.

Of the grandkids, my son remembers him best. He was ten when Grandfather died. My niece and nephew were much younger.

I have many fond memories of my dad. Sitting on his lap listening to him read the Sunday funnies before church while we waited for Mom to finish getting ready. Being his dance partner for "Frenchie Brown," the only round-dance I knew. The expression on his face the first time he held my son.

If I had to choose my fondest memory, it would have to be singing with him at Mass. I loved his booming baritone voice. He used to get teased about "leading the singing from the back of the church," although we never sat in the back.

I first learned to sing harmony standing at his side. I loved the old hymns like Amazing Grace, Alleluia, Sing to Jesus, Salve Regina, O Sacred Head Surrounded, Holy God We Praise Thy Name, Dona Nobis Pacem and Ave Maria. Before I learned to read music, we would make up the parts as we went along.

For a short period of time, when I was older, we were all on the altar at Mass together every Sunday. Dad was a Reader, with his loud clear voice. Mom was a Eucharistic Minister. I was the Cantor, leading the congregation in song but always hearing my Dad's voice above everyone else.

When Dad was sick and dying from cancer, I would sometimes sit by his side and sing to him. After awhile, he didn't have enough strength to sing. His booming voice became thin and weak. But he enjoyed listening to my voice, and I could hear him singing in my head. "Ave, ave, ave Maria! Ave, ave Maria!"

At his funeral, I decided to offer him a gift no one else could give. I sang.

Yes, I sang Amazing Grace at my father's funeral. The first verse I sang a cappella. I had asked everyone to listen for my father's voice. I don't know if they heard it, but I certainly did. That was the most difficult and the most beautiful performance I'd ever given.

I don't sing as often as I used to, but I still sing at Mass. And I still hear my dad. That which lives in our hearts can never die.

Dona nobis pacem.


This post was inspired by Jeff Muise's post remembering his mother. Thanks Jeff!

The face of a clock

A week or so ago, a photographer from a local weekly newspaper took photos of Greg and me for an article about our business.

We picked up a copy the evening it hit the streets and ripped it open to see what was written and what picture they had chosen.

"It's a picture of you on your cab," I said, disappointed. "Not one of us together."

Greg glanced at the photo and said, "No, there you are, sitting in the back."

"That's not me," I exclaimed. "That's the clock!"

He looked again and laughed, "Oh, you're right." (In Greg's defense, it was sort of dark and he didn't have his reading glasses on.)

When we got home I showed my mom the photo and told her the story. She laughed and said,"Well, if he ever gets lonesome, he can look at a clock and think of you."

Eskie Thieves

Anyone who's ever had American Eskimo Dogs in their family knows that they're thieves. They'll steal just about anything that they think they can eat or play with. Even if they know they'll get in trouble, they're compelled to do it anyway. Sometimes I think that, like kids, the idea of getting in trouble is part of the fun.

We have a dog door (thank heaven!) from our walk-out basement to the backyard. There's nothing more frightening than watching the Eskies both come running down the stairs, through the basement and blast through the dog door as fast as they can. It usually means that one has something he shouldn't (toilet paper, napkin, some choice morsel from the kitchen counter, or plastic from the recycle bin) and the other is chasing after.

Sometimes they're quiet and sneaky about it, especially when I'm still asleep in the morning.

As I've mentioned before, my mom loves to bake. She saves empty Pringles cans to put cookies in to be mailed in care packages to family and friends. The other day, she had a grocery bag with Pringles cans waiting to be filled with goodies sitting on a dining room chair. We thought they were safe because we've installed a gate between the kitchen and dining room to keep the dogs out. The secret is that you need to actually latch the gate. Otherwise, Eskies will figure out a way to get it open.

I woke up that morning to a rustling sound and noticed an Eskie carrying something out through the dog door. I knew it was likely something they weren't supposed to have. So I put on my robe and went out back to investigate.

Lo and behold, there were the Eskies happily destroying the Pringles cans. They sneaked upstairs, pushed the gate open, and pulled them out of the bag. They probably would have gotten more than three if the bag hadn't caught on the third one and the rustling sound hadn't woken me up.

When I asked them in a stern voice, "What are you doing?!" they both looked up from the cans like little kids. "Who? Us? Nothing." I could imagine them saying.

They've stolen other things to be enjoyed outside: Money (fortunately, nothing more than a $1 bill yet), checks, stacks of business cards, post-it notes (for some reason, they love paper), underwear (Boxers or briefs? Our neighbors know.), tubes of lip balm and hand lotion.

The worst was when they sneaked into my mom's bedroom and stole bags of chocolate-covered dried cherries she had bought for Christmas gifts. They were puking and pooping fuchsia all day! It was horrible! It was winter, before we had installed the dog door, so I couldn't just leave them outside. Thank heaven it wasn't good chocolate, so they didn't eat enough cocoa to make them dangerously sick. I quarantined them downstairs (using another gate, latched of course). I still have light pink stains on the basement carpet.

Cardiologist's diet

If it tastes good, spit it out!

Eyebrow pencils

My mom won't be seen without her eyebrows, even around the house. The women in our family tend to have thin eyebrows, if they have them at all. So Mom draws her eyebrows on before she ever leaves her bedroom.

Last week, when I glanced at my mom, I noticed that something didn't look quite right. The area above her eyes looked iritated, kind of red. I didn't think much of it until later when we sat down for lunch together and I got a closer look.

Her eyebrows were red! Not the typical dark brown like her hair, but red!

Trying not to laugh, I asked her what she'd used to draw her eyebrows that morning, and she told me she used the same pencil she always did.

"I don't think so," I told her. "Your eyebrows are red!"

She started laughing. "I must have grabbed the wrong pencil. But I looked at it and it looked brown like my other ones."

Later I snuck up to her room and found the pencil she had used. It was lipliner!

Yes, the body of the pencil was sort of brown. Her regular Maybelline eyebrown pencil had a red body. So I can see how she'd get confused. Didn't she notice something was amiss when she looked in the mirror as she was drawing them on? Apparently not.

Even after I told her about her red eyebrows, she never bothered to look in the mirror, wash it off, and draw on new brown eyebrows. She just left them like that. She went out to get the mail, waved at the neighbors, all with red eyebrows.

The next day she told me that she'd thrown the offending lipliner away. (Can you tell the difference in the photo above?)

Photos of my grandson

Thought you might like to see photos of my grandson...




Funny how kids want to be the center of attention until you point a camera in their direction. Then this is what you get.

Notice the little tail in the middle of his hairline at the back of his neck. That's a family trait. I have it, my son has it, and my grandson has it. Thought you might like to know so you can recognize us in a crowd.

Ugly legs

The other evening my mom was reading the latest edition of Ladies Home Journal. She announced to Greg and I that a woman in the magazine had really ugly legs.

"I never really notice legs," she said, "but I couldn't help but notice these. They're really ugly. I can't believe she's even showing her legs, they're so ugly."

Greg and I shrugged and went on watching the hockey game on TV.

At the next break, she grabbed the magazine, opened it up to the picture in question, and handed it to Greg saying, "He's a man. Let's see what he has to say. Now doesn't she have ugly legs?"

Greg took the magazine, hesitating but curious, and put on his reading glasses so he could get a good look. He was expecting varicose veins, bruises, scars, something really horrifying.

"You'd better say yes," I whispered. "You'd better agree with her."

"Hmmm," he said as he looked at the photo. There was Sally Field, a middle-aged actress sitting on a loveseat with her legs curled up next to her. Nothing like what he expected.

I held my breath.

"Well, I think she's got nice legs," Greg commented, "especially for her age. Her legs are great." I cringed as he handed me the magazine.

My mom was stunned. "You're just saying that," she said defensively. "You're just saying that because you're afraid to tell the truth! You're afraid of her!" She pointed at me. "You won't tell the truth because she might get mad at you!"

Greg and I both started laughing. "I told you to just agree with her," I whispered again.

"What are so bad about her legs?" I asked her.

"They're so...uh...muscley."

"But that's what people like in legs these days. Toned. Muscled. She obviously works out and takes care of herself," I responded.

"Yuck!" she retorted. "I don't like them!"

I remember some comments from my dad when he was still alive about someone having "dancer's legs". That wasn't a compliment back then.

Things change. Some people don't. It's not worth arguing about.