Scribe Tribe marks Father's Day with remembrances
On Father's Day, we celebrate our earliest role models and honor all they do for their families. Whether our fathers, grandfathers, uncles, brothers, and guardians are still with us or live on in our memories, this June day is one to recognize and thank all those who have given of themselves so generously. Here, members of the Scribe Tribe, a group of MetroWest-based writers, share remembrances ahead of the holiday.
Hats Off, Real Life Fathers
When I was a young child, I thought a father was supposed to be like the TV dad on “Father Knows Best.” He would wear a suit to an office, have a slight smile on his face, and speak in calm, but measured tones. My reality was different. I was fortunate to have several solid role models, who each brought value to my evolving understanding of a father’s role.
Working for a Living. My own father didn’t wear a suit to an office. He wore a blue uniform and carried a coin changer because he worked for a regional transportation company. After serving in the Army for six years, including during World War II, he started out as a bus driver and moved on to security after a number of years. With six children and a wife who adhered to the expectations of the 50s that mothers would stay home with the children, my father usually worked six or seven days a week. He would pick up a side job for the weekends, either working at his brother’s meat store in downtown Boston or driving a taxi.
When we were all in school, unlike most women of the early 60s era, my mother rejoined the workforce, and the pressure on my father to work constantly eased up. Through those years, he modeled the importance of a solid work ethic and financial responsibility. He paid the mortgage and the monthly bills, did the grocery shopping every Thursday, and undertook home improvement projects. All of his children became productive, enthusiastic members of the workforce.
And, in fact, his adult children today do remember a few words of wisdom he imparted. “All work is noble,” he advised more than once, often adding, “And always look busy.” His financial tip for managing a household never strayed from this point: “Keep your overhead low.” Finally, at day’s end with a trace of fatigue and a hint of hope in his voice, he would sometimes proffer: “Tomorrow’s another day.”
Tending the Family Garden. My mother’s father, parent of seven and grandfather to 33, brought different characteristics to my understanding of a man’s role in a family. Since he was retired, he had time to spend in his cottage at the shore. On summer Sundays typically all seven of his children would show up for a day at the beach with their children.
My grandfather seemed to always be on the move, puttering around in his shed, tending his vegetable garden, or making his renowned potato salad for the crowd that would return from the beach, lugging their babies and toddlers, shovels and pails, and beach toys. I don’t recall him sitting down much; he was always a quiet presence, making sure everyone had what they needed.
He didn’t impart words of wisdom or sage advice. His gift was a welcoming invite to join him in the garden to pick tomatoes and check the progress of his broccoli, or to walk up the road with him for one last peek at the ocean before bedtime. He managed to forge a relationship with each of his grandchildren by giving his undivided attention whenever one of us had a story to tell, and we had many because he always listened.
From him, I learned that in a big family like ours, every member was important. Everyone was valued from Kathleen, the first grandchild born in 1945, to Amy, number 33, born in 1968.
Finally, in my own years as a parent and now a grandparent, I have been privileged to see my husband and now our son create their own model of a father as society’s ideas about a father’s role have changed. They both engaged in all aspects of infant care, forging bonds from their children’s earliest days, ties that will sustain their relationships for a lifetime.
No, I didn’t have a dad like Jim Anderson, the Midwestern insurance salesman doling out wise counsel. Actor Robert Young’s depiction of him in “Father Knows Best” was likely an unrealistic representation of a home life that few families in the fifties and sixties probably experienced. Yet as I reflect on the “village” that brought me to this point in life, I see that all the pieces I needed were there. I just had to put them all together. -- Connie Burgess, Wayland
No Shortcut to Grief
When I was twelve years old, my family received a call telling us that my dad’s car had swerved to avoid a deer and struck a tree head-on. It was a wonder he was able to survive, considering that his sturdy wood-paneled Ford station wagon resembled a giant accordion. Though his leg was broken, he walked for help until an ambulance arrived and transported him to a nearby hospital. The doctors speculated that the accident saved his life, for they discovered he had a serious heart condition that had gone undiagnosed. This was a poignant wake-up call since his dad, my grandfather, had died of a heart attack at the age of forty-nine. His untimely death left a massive hole in my father's life, requiring him to drop out of college in order to support his mother and three of his sisters. For me, it was an abrupt introduction to the fragility of life.
Years earlier, my father co-owned a lucrative dress manufacturing business named Baer Brothers. He’d delighted in his early success, and had a habit of ordering custom-made white cotton shirts with his initials JB monogrammed on the pocket. Times changed and Baer Brothers wasn’t agile enough to react to the changes in women’s fashion during the 1960s, and the firm went under. At the time of the accident, dad was working as a traveling salesman, selling women’s cocktail dresses as he schlepped from town to town throughout central New York, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania. The work was backbreaking for a fifty-four-year-old man with, or even without, a bad heart.
After the diagnosis, whenever my father was on the road, my body would flood with fear with each ring of the telephone. Was it another accident? Or worse? It was agonizing to witness him load the car with bulky black sample boxes on Sunday nights. Without my mom around, there was no guarantee that he would comply to the strict dietary restrictions prescribed by his doctor. Since there was no way to keep him safe, I began to prepare myself emotionally to anesthetize my reactions to various dreadful scenarios. When the time came I would be ready, invulnerable, and immune to sorrow.
When the fateful call came, I was twenty-six, living hundreds of miles away from my childhood home. “He had chest pains,” said my Mom, “so I drove him to the hospital. He walked in, and by the time I parked the car to join him, he was gone.” It was a surreal moment, quite unlike anything I had imagined as an adolescent. Nor was I prepared for the hard lesson: there is no shortcut to grief, despite one’s best plans and intentions. -- Ellen Mandel, Framingham
A Fitting Tribute
A member of the Greatest Generation, my Dad was a proud World War II veteran, serving in the Army’s 78th Infantry Division in Europe. His bravery during the war earned him a Purple Heart among other military distinctions. He never talked much about his wartime experiences, but I always had the feeling that it was a very significant part of his life. So, when he had the chance to join the Honor Flight Maine trip in 2015, he decided that he definitely wanted to go. (Honor Flight Maine takes Maine veterans to Washington, DC, to visit all the war memorials scattered around the capitol.) This trip turned out to be one of the highlights of his life.
Given the logistics of traveling while in a wheelchair at age 95, I was concerned that the journey would be hard for him. I decided to send my son, Andrew, along with one of my Dad’s nurses, to accompany him. The group planned to leave on a 6 a.m. flight from Portland, Maine, to Baltimore, Maryland, where the veterans and their escorts were going to stay in a hotel overnight. That morning, my Dad was up at 3 a.m. to get ready. After arriving in Baltimore, the group boarded a bus for DC and enjoyed a full day of visiting the Washington memorials. The group visited the World War II, Korean War, and Vietnam War memorials and also got to see Arlington National Cemetery. At every stop, they were greeted and thanked for their service. Andrew said that his Granddad graciously received their thanks, sometimes with tears in his eyes. The group left early the next day to fly back home to Maine.
When the veterans and their escorts returned to the Portland airport, a huge crowd was on hand to welcome them back. Bands played as the enthusiastic crowd waved flags. I gathered there with my brother and other family members and friends. My Dad was beaming as Andrew pushed him down the airport ramp. We all enjoyed a celebratory luncheon complete with politicians and military brass in attendance. Andrew confessed he was pretty tired from getting up so early and visiting all those monuments, but my Dad seemed just as energetic at the end of the trip as he was at the beginning!
I am so happy that my Dad got to experience this before he passed away a couple of years later. It was a fitting tribute for a humble and very brave man! -- Joan Piergrossi, Sudbury
Corned Beef and the Giants
Jewish delicatessens were as much a part of New York City’s fabric as the Yankees and Empire State Building. A typical 1950’s Jewish neighborhood was a tightly knit community with a small, family-owned Jewish deli. That’s where the recipes of a global diaspora of Eastern European Ashkenazi Jews formed hedonistic abundance: pastrami and corned beef laced with fat and sodium piled several feet high, savory sour pickles curing in oaken barrels, towers of kasha and potato knishes, heaping scoops of chopped chicken liver blended with schmaltz, and loaves upon puffy loaves of rye bread - pure decadence. Delis were the place to eat, to meet, and to greet.
As a contrast to my mom’s bland cooking — my dad would take me for lunch to our favorite deli near the Polo Grounds before watching the (then) New York Giants play baseball. He instilled in me a love of the game and remained a loyal fan, even after the team defected to San Francisco.
We shared special father-and-daughter repast, indulging our gustatory senses. We’d marvel as the waiter slid lofty sandwiches down the counter in single, graceful motions — just like pitcher Sal Maglie delivered underhand fastballs to home plate. Dad and I would immediately “schmear” the rye bread with thick blobs of spicy brown mustard. We minimized the guilt of eating the fatty, salty corned beef by telling ourselves that at least the mustard didn’t add calories. And with that sharp mustardy tang, although our arteries may have gotten clogged from the meat, our sinuses remained clear.
I fondly recall the smokiness and spiciness of the meat rub that hit us in the back of our throats and warmed our bodies. We’d each open wide. Take a cavernous bite. Let the taste implode in our mouths. We chewed slowly. Intently. Concentrated on the spices and thick layers of flavor. Then we’d wash the last mouth-watering bite down with swigs of cream soda right from the bottle. It was a symphony of bubbles and sugary syrup. What’s not to love?
Oh — to go back to those days and share precious time with my dear dad before a baseball game. The thought of it makes my mouth water, the corners of my lips turn upward, and my heart hunger for my culinary culprit. . . baseball bud. . . superhero. . . and first love who set a very high standard as to what to expect from men. And I never settled for less. -- Sheryl Roberts (nee Lorenz), Marlborough
Missed
I missed my father on October 20, 2004 — the night the Red Sox defeated the Yankees on the way to their first World Series victory since 1918. He was a lifelong Yankees fan who grew up in the eras of Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle, and he deftly managed to nickname my younger brother Mickey in Mantle’s honor. I would have called my dad that night, not to gloat, but to talk about the game he loved, and the historic achievement of the Sox coming back from being down three games in a championship series.
I had always felt he was disappointed that I had neither talent nor interest in sports of any kind. He loved watching football and basketball, but his obsession was baseball. We went to a few games over time, but they didn't hold my attention. On the other hand, years later in Boston I could brag that my dad used to take me to see Celtics center Robert Parish play college basketball.
In 2004, I watched exactly eight baseball games. I have no idea why I sat down to watch the Sox play game four after losing three to the Yankees. When they won, I had to watch the next one. The next few nights, sitting alone in front of the TV with everyone else in the house asleep, I could feel the tension of the entire population of Boston. And so it continued, through the Red Sox sweep of the World Series. That tension stretched to the end of the Series, because everyone knew Boston was cursed. Even when the Sox were up three games, you knew they could still blow it. Even though no team had ever come back from being down three in a championship, that had just happened, too. He had passed away less than two years before. We would have had a lot to talk about. -- Win Treese, Wayland
The Scribe Tribe is a group of MetroWest-based writers. Members meet twice monthly via Zoom to share and critique each other's writing.