Paradise Found

Father’s Day is a little strange in our house.  Doug and I both have fathers that have passed on.  I really didn’t know my father well – I was 37 when he left us so, last Sunday I really concentrated on what I did know.  My father was first-generation American from parents who arrived in the US in 1912.  He was born in 1921 the third of four siblings.

I didn’t hear many stories about his early days, but I know that he met my mother in high school and neither would have ever given a thought to living without each other.  He told me he loved to play baseball and hoped for a career in the sport.  He graduated high school as a mediocre student in 1939, the year Germany invaded Poland.

My parents married in 1941, both in their early 20s – and my father enlisted in the Army Air Corps at the beginning of 1942 right after the attack on Pearl Harbor.  It just about 3 years for him to train to fly and he attended various schools around the country before leaving for the Pacific Theatre in the Spring of 1945.  My mother followed after him during his training until he shipped out.  This is information I learned from files found after both of my parents passed.

I was born in November of 1945 and my father was shot down in his plane over Luzon in August 1945 right at the war’s end.  He was 23.  He never talked about the war or his injuries.  The only thing I know is that he spent a year in the VA hospital in Atlantic City before coming home full time.  I know because I overhear my mother talking about it.  As a result of his plane crash, he was a hemiplegic and suffered burns on his chest and arms.  He refused to walk with a crutch, threw away his braces, still danced and was a great swimmer.  Nothing stopped him.

After his release from the hospital, he decided to take advantage of the GI bill and graduated from Montclair State Teacher’s College in three years (Magna Cum Laude) and continued on to Columbia for his Master’s Degree.  He never worked as a teacher but took a job with the Government.  I have no idea what he did other than finding a roster recently online that listed him as one of two executives in the office in which he worked.  .

He was a fierce Democrat having greatly admired Franklin Roosevelt and he was a total supporter of civil rights.    He was heartbroken when Stevenson lost the presidental race to Eisenhower and taught us from a very early age to respect people of every age,  race and religion.  When he wanted to make a point, he pulled little wooden chairs in front of a blackboard and started to “teach”.  I remember clearly, the day he taught me about slurs – words that he said would never come from my mouth. And they never have.

He was definately a man before his time.  He moved us out of the city to Middletown NJ in 1953 – it was an Irma Bombeck adventure personified.  My mother furnished the house almost completely in brand new colonial furniture.  Except for the living room.  My father loved modern and all by himself, with the help of a few interior design books that I remember vividly, decorated our living room.  Black and white tile floors, salt and pepper sofa, a mahogany coffee and side tables and black and gray marble lamps and of course a high-fi.  The accents were two orange barrel chairs that sat in front of a pictue window.  No knick-knacks.   One Christmas he dragged home a long box.  When he opened it, we all stood in wonderment, like characters from a Jean Shepard story, when out he pulled a white, artificial tree along with orange lights, and orange decorations, all perfect for his modern space!

Every night he would come home from his city commute and sit in the living room, Manhattan in hand.  He loved to listen to music and his range was huge – Ravel’s Bolero to the soundtrack of The King and I to Louis Prima and Keeley Smith – and of course Frank.  We had to listen too.  Every Wednesday he would bring us the latest 45, but before we could play it we had to lisen to something of his choice.  I still know just about every word to the songs of Oklahoma.

He was tall, thin and his hair was completely white for as long as I can remember.  Walking with his limp, he was always an ominous figure to our friends.  To his family and friends, he was a smart-witted guy, great fisherman, and challanging conversationalist. He loved to read and spent most of his time after the Manhattan, up in his bedroom reading.  He favored science fiction, but swayed occasionnally to other subjects.  If he really liked something he suggested it to me.   And his taste in movies was sort of funny.  I remember a night he took my mother to see “A Clockwork Orange.”  Enough said.

One night, the summer after I graduated high school, he came into the dining room for Sunday dinner and started the conversation by asking us about “Mary Jane”.  We all looked at eachother, on the edge of laughter.  He said “You know what I mean – MJ, Mary Jane – marijuana.”  It was a one-of-a-kind moment.  He always knew what was going on, what was in vogue, and always believed in being curious.  At the  end, he was smoking marijuana at a doctor’s recommendation.

When I turned 17, he bought me a brand-new, red volkswagon bug, but before I could use it I had to learn how to change the tires.  I had to do it 3-4 times before he released me to drive away!

His dream was to live at our vacation house in Lavallette in the summer and Florida in the winter.  The Lavallette house was bought in 1946 with monies from an insurance policy he received for his injuries he received in WWII – $5000.  In 1965 my parents moved to Lavallette after building a larger, more up-to-date home on the same street.  In the late 70s they started to vacation in Florida – first in Venice and then to the place of their dreams:  Naples.  In 1982 my father decided to retire after a short winter vacation in Naples.  The returned to Lavallette and at the end of that summer and he became ill.  He passed six months later never to have lived his dream of full winters in Naples.

All these years later I wish I knew him better.  I have so many questons to ask with no one to answer not directly from him but from my aunts and uncles, but all have been gone for a long time.  I have been the matriarch for over 30 years.   But even more, I wish he could have known me, what my life has been and the influence he had on me.   I am sure he would have enjoyed my cooking and my ability to make a good Manhattan, and that all he worked hard for paid off.  He never had the chance to retire in Paradise  – but I did it for him.

Till next time,

E