Dad didn’t go to college. He served in the U.S. Navy in the Philippines. He was in the Seabees. He helped survey and build the airport at Subic Bay. He once caught and cooked a wild jungle boar. Dad worked for the same company his whole life: Baker Engineers. He worked in their offices in West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Virginia. I used to drive past the company’s blue and white sign in Alexandria on the way to my apartment. I looked at it every time. Dad and mom adopted me as a baby. Dad wanted to call me John Kevin, while mom wanted Kevin John. Dad won. This time. Dad never, to my knowledge, listened to a song or played a record for enjoyment. He couldn’t understand why I would want to buy an album when the radio was free. There was a rumor that as a young man he had a crush on pop singer Teresa Brewer, but that was unconfirmed. Dad’s voice was recorded once. He got me a tape recorder one Christmas with a 5-minute cassette tape. That’s right, five minutes. One Sunday morning I taped a Popeye cartoon off the TV set. Halfway through I heard his voice come from the kitchen: “More orange juice out there, buster.” My response: “Yup.” I listened to that tape over and over again. A few years ago I bought that same Popeye cartoon on DVD. I can still hear his voice. Dad and mom had a dog named Tiny. She was getting old when I was a toddler. After Tiny died we buried her in the back yard with a cross made of two sticks. A few weeks later Dad tapped on the window of the church basement where I had my weekly Cub Scout meeting. He took me out of the meeting to go to a farm to pick out our new puppy, Muffin. (Mom named the dogs, shut up). Dad was a gardener. His favorite hobby was sifting rocks from dirt. It made quite a big pile of dirt, which was fun to play on, until the day the ants found me. Dad would ask me to measure the wood with a red pencil before we cut it. There’s no pressure like trying to hold a 2-by-4 steady while dad sawed it in two. Trust me. Dad helped me make my Pinewood Derby car. We painted it blue. It lost every race. Dad took me fishing, where I tried to fight off the gnats flying into my ear, nose and mouth. Dad watched me play Little League baseball, where I tried to play right field while gnats flew into my ear, nose and mouth. Dad took me golfing, where I tried to -- well, you get the picture. Dad lost his little rowboat during Hurricane Agnes in 1972. The Susquehanna River was 32 feet above flood stage. Our cellar was four feet above flood stage. Our dog Tiny confirmed it by almost drowning while walking down the cellar steps. Dad said “we’ll see” a lot. It usually meant “Probably, but don’t make a big deal out of it.” Dad invented a phrase: “Ship, ship.” It was a form of mild exasperation and resignation. “Dad, did you hear the Phillies lost the game on a Dave Parker home run?” “Ship, ship.” “Dad, can we go to Kings Dominion for summer vacation?” “Ship, ship. We’ll see.” Dad could be silly, but he wasn’t a clown. I was. I can’t remember how many times he called me “goofball.” It seemed like a lot. Dad took me for milk shakes at one of those 1,000-flavor places once. He asked me what flavor I wanted. “Grasshopper!” I said with a grin. He looked at me disgustedly and said I would never finish it. He ordered vanilla. Mine sucked. I couldn’t finish it. Dad also let me choose the color when it was time to repaint my bedroom. “Raspberry!” I said. He had the same look on his face. Ship, ship. Dad dropped the F-bomb only twice in my presence, both times while he was behind the wheel. Stupid drivers. Dad tried to teach me how to drive stick shift. It didn’t really take. He didn’t have the patience, and I didn’t have the skills. I only learned when the college sub shop where I worked asked me to drive the Ford Fiesta for the lunch rush. In the rain. I think I only hit one car. Dad was a Penthouse man. Dad bought our first air conditioner when I was about 13 years old. Don’t ask me about the summers before that. Dad helped me put the Sunday papers together when I got a paper route at age 10. We would load the green wooden wagon and walk to every house together. Then I’d get in the wagon and dad would push me down the hill on Concord Street. Then we’d all have breakfast at home, usually pancakes. Dad and mom took me to the drive-in theater a lot growing up. I saw Superdad, Benji, Bugsy Malone and who knows what else. It’s a Karns grocery store now. Dad took me to Penn State football games. To beat the traffic we left the house before 7 a.m. I would wake up early and deliver the newspapers in the dark. You’ve never seen a more excited kid. Dad would drive us to Pop-Pop’s apartment in Coaldale. Along the way we’d pass a billboard of a giant glass of beer, about to tip over. “Nope, hasn’t spilled yet,” Dad would say, every time. Dad and mom got me the best cards for my birthday. The best. I still don’t know where they found them. Dad and mom and me lived about 10 miles from Three Mile Island. During the 1979 accident, half our friends evacuated for the weekend. We stayed put. Okay, we might have packed one bag. Dad was usually mild-mannered. But he could anger in a hurry. One night a neighbor kid, a bad influence type two years older than everyone else in his grade, threw eggs at our bay window. We were in the living room. Dad left the house and hunted the kid down, nearly breaking his finger from what I heard. Dad never talked about it. Dad bought the groceries in our family. He always took me along, usually to Pathmark. After a few years of walking the aisles with him I got smart. I would head straight to the cereal aisle, pick out a box, throw it in the cart, then park at the magazine rack and read all the Mads and Crackeds until he was done. Dad always made fruit salad on Thanksgiving and Christmas morning. Dad took up smoking as a young man. Marlboro Reds. Mom quit in 1980. Dad never could. Dad cried once that I know of, when my Aunt Helen died. I wasn’t there. I think I’m relieved I didn’t see it. Dad kissed me goodnight every night until the night when he suggested we shake hands instead. We did, from then on. Dad used to drive me and mom to Indiantown Gap to show me where he wanted to be buried. I would yell “Dad! That’s morbid.” He’d just smile. Dad would have been 80 on July 2nd. He’s buried at Indiantown Gap. I miss him. Happy Father’s Day.
Posted on: Sun, 15 Jun 2014 04:46:22 +0000
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