Heavenly Father

(This was printed in a local publication, "The Tinytown Gazette", for Father's Day of 2007)

Some may remember Archie Bunker from the television series “All in the Family,” but he lived in my house. My Dad had more in common with Carroll O’Connor’s character than he would care to admit. Growing up with him was a trip; losing him was a battle.

Loud, inappropriate, and politically incorrect, he was the center of family gatherings. He often relaxed on the recliner in front of our one and only TV. What little control he had in life was held over that squawking screen, and we grew up on his favorites, “Lawrence Welk,” “The Honeymooners,” “Hee Haw,” and, oh, his beloved “wrastling”.

Frank aka ‘Smitty’ was a legend at the meat plant where he toiled for 40 years. I spent one summer working there and was constantly regaled with stories of his workplace antics and heroics. Walking in together to punch the time clock, I would often hear the shout, “Beauty and the Beast!” My Dad’s response would generally be, “Please don’t call my daughter names!”

My father spoke of having visited 48 states while in the service, although I can’t recall ever going away on vacation. While in Germany during World War II, he was a prisoner of war, and missing in action for nine months. As a teenager, I took horrible glee in teasing my Mother about the tear-stained entries in her diary from that time.

Growing up, my Father’s bouts of dourness and irritability were hard to understand. Now I see the challenge of his whirlwind life with seven children, only one having a legitimate handicap to excuse poor behavior. Trying to balance each little square in the house of cards that his world had become must have been amazingly difficult; knowing one small movement could cause it all to collapse.

Regardless, he was a clown at heart, and I have vivid memories of his lighthearted foolishness. He once told his grandchildren he had swallowed a beach ball when they asked about his expanding girth. Another time, he struck a pose while holding one of my daughter’s toys, perfectly mimicking its comic expression. His irreverence was boundless; there was no mercy from his sarcasm.

Frank and Bernice managed to tough out 61 years together. Well into his 80s, my Dad would hold his “Bernie’s” hand and grin foolishly. At a wedding shortly before he died, my brother and I wheeled our parents onto the dance floor in their respective chairs and assisted them in what would be their final waltz.

Losing a parent is a sadness one rarely recovers from. We can stuff it into a far corner, hoping darkness will cause it to shrivel and fade, but small rays of memory light upon it, causing it to bloom afresh. I can still see my Dad’s face split in a goofy grin, oversized glasses perched on his nose and cap askew, with my daughter’s stuffed animal clasped in his wrinkled hands. He was heavenly, my father.