Dad, for those of you who don't know, had what could be called a rough life, right from the start. He was born quite prematurely, weighing something like 3.5 lbs at birth. Back in those days, babies that small didn't survive too often. But he did, struggling and fighting until he was healthy enough to go home. Not that going home was much better, as Dad was part of a large family, with an overwhelmed Mother and a rather abusive, alcoholic Father. His Mother died shortly thereafter as a result of an 'accident' (falling down the stairs) and his Father didn't live much longer, leaving Dad and his siblings as orphans. Into a Catholic orphanage they went, staying there longer than one would hope, until a wonderful couple, Thomas and Margaret Flood took Dad and his brother Ken home with them. Dad always considered the Floods his 'real' parents, and he was extremely close with his adoptive Dad. I remember as a little kid, sitting in the Flood house, and hearing Dad and 'Pop Pop' talking about their life together, and how 'Pop Pop' and 'Grandma' Flood had tried to give Dad and Ken whatever they could to make their lives a bit happier. I think that's when I first heard Dad say what I remember to this day, 'put a smile on the face of a child and you've done something important'. Or words to that effect. I always carried it as 'nothing's more important than putting a smile on the face of a child'. Whichever way it was said, it's something I've tried to keep in the front of my mind through the years. Being employed in the Recreation field, those were certainly words that rang true in all the years of working at the local parks, and especially when I became the Superintendent of Recreation.]
Here's Mom & Dad on their wedding day:
Last night, Karen and I went to Ice Works in Syosset, to watch Tom play hockey. And as we sat there, and I shot a few pictures, I got to thinking about how similar both Bill and Tom are to how I was when I was their age; and how much I modeled myself after my Dad.
When I was a kid, Dad and Mom never had a lot of extra money in the household, so lots of things that would normally be done by 'professionals' were done by them. I remember Dad, on at least two occasions, spending most of his three week vacation painting our house. And of course, he wouldn't just 'paint the house' standing on an extension ladder. No, Dad bought a set of painters scaffold jacks, and used them to do the job. He'd be out on that silly thing all day long, walking back and forth, cranking it up and down. He wouldn't even come in to eat; Mom passed him sandwiches and drinks out of the windows! I never saw a plumber in our house, nor an electrician or carpenter. If Dad couldn't fix it (which was really unusual), one of Mom's brothers, or a neighbor, would help out.
I especially remember Dad working on his cars from time to time. Back then, although we remember the cars with much fondness, they weren't as reliable, nor as maintenance free as they are today. Dad was always fooling around with the car, 'tuning it up', changing the oil, or replacing a battery, generator, regulator, carburetor - whatever. And who would be sitting right next to him while all this was going on? Yeah, me of course. Handing him tools while he was laying underneath the car, or cleaning off a piece of hardware, getting him a beer, whatever he needed. Most of Dad's cars were used cars; in his entire life, he owned one brand new car. The '54 Plymouth he bought used; the '52 Dodge had been 'Pop Pop' Floods'; the '60 Vailiant came used from a local gas station. And despite the fact that they were all used, Dad treated them like they were gold. To him, they weren't just a means of getting from point a to point b. They were, like the many professional tools he owned, a means to earn his living, as he drove to work all over the metro area, and also an escape mechanism that he used to get those short breaks from his work life. He cherished those cars, and was grateful to have them, and he gave me an appreciation for not just the cars, but for the people who created them, the strong men and women who welded and bolted them together. It was Dad who sparked my lifelong interest in cars. Hell, I used to sit in his old Valiant and read the owners manual from cover to cover - and to this day, I have read each and every owners manual I've ever had, from cover to cover. As he might say, you never know when you'll need to know something that's in that book.
Tom, playing hockey:
And as I sat in the ice rink last night, I thought about how both Bill and Tom are also very much into cars. At the moment, Tom a little more so than Bill, but Bill has a lot on his plate, being back in college, and having just gotten married. But the both have an interest in cars, and each of them has been to multiple car shows with me, and they both know how to, and have driven, the Yellow Fish, 'our' '65 Barracuda. We've gone to the Chrysler show in Carlisle together; the NY Auto Show was a tradition for many years; and it's not unusual for either of them to text me with a comment about something they've seen on an automotive web site, a question about their own cars, or a general comment about a car or a car company. And I know that when it comes to the old cars, they appreciate the fact that they were made by human beings, not robots nor machines. As Dad would have said, and as I say, those old cars have souls; the engine on our Barracuda was assembled by hand 50 years ago, and it was only just opened up for the first time since it left the factory earlier this spring. The work those men and women did, while not always perfect, has more meaning to me, and is 'better' than the best robot built car of today. But that's just me.
Sitting in the stands, watching Tom skate reminded me of how Dad supported both Ginny and I when we were playing sports.Both Dad and his brother Ken were terrific baseball players, and both of them played semi pro ball in Queens NY. Dad loved playing ball, and it was also a way for he and Ken to make a few extra dollars each week. Ken was a little taller and bigger than Dad, but Dad was a better ballplayer. He could run like the wind, had a great arm, and was a darn good hitter. Ken may have had more natural talent, but Dad worked hard and got the most out of his abilities. When I wanted to join Little League, Dad was thrilled, as he and 'Pop Pop' Flood were both great Yankee fans, and loved the game of baseball. Despite his crazy work schedule (one year he worked 1,000 hours of overtime, in addition to his 'regular' hours!), Dad volunteered to help coach my team. He taught me the basics, how to judge a fly ball (when you can see over the top of the ball, you're in position to catch it), how to hit, and how to set yourself to make good, strong throws. Through the years, whenever I'd get in a slump, or went a couple of games without making good contact, Dad would take me to the park, and throw pitch after pitch to me, tinkering with my stance and swing until I was again hitting the ball well. He probably missed his true calling, that of a batting coach. He could fix anyone's swing in just a short time.
After I turned 18, the game changed from 'hardball' to 'softball', and I started playing on a bunch of different teams. It became a passion, one I probably took too seriously, and I played pretty regularly until my mid 40's.
Billy, getting into one:
And now, don't you know, Billy has been playing ever since he got back from the Marines, and Tom played last year. I think Tom would have kept playing, but he was on a pretty bad team, and most of them gave it up after having a very poor season.
Tom, giving one a ride:
Billy's team, on the other hand, has won two league championships already. They have a very balanced team, and Billy is a really good player. I watch him, and I can't help but remember how Dad watched me, not just in Little League, but in softball as well. In fact, one of my favorite memories is the time when I was maybe 19 or 20, and Dad and I played with his VFW buddies in a couple of games against other local VFW Posts. By then of course, the cigarettes had taken their toll, and Dad couldn't play the way I knew he'd been able to when I was younger. But it was still a blast, and I think going back to the pub after the game and sharing a couple of cold ones with him and his friends was as much fun as the game!
All of these things went through my mind as Karen and I were leaving the rink after watching Tom's game (they won, in a rout, 9-2). And what I kept thinking about was how blessed I'd been to have picked up some of Dad's interests and passions, and have kept them alive by passing them on to Billy and Tom. I think, and I certainly hope, that they've picked up and will keep alive only the good things I've done in my life, and some of the not so good things, will be forgotten and left behind.
Because as humans, that's what we do over time. The memories get kind of cloudy, and we bury the bad stuff way way down in the dark little corners of our minds where we don't go very often. To me, that's the way we cope with things that weren't so pleasant, by more often re-running the good things over and over in the front, or well lighted part of our brain. And so on Father's Day, the dark corners will stay dark, and I'll enjoy poking around in the bright spots of my mind, where all the very deep, very loving memories of my Dad live each and every day. I hope that when the time comes for Billy and Tom to open up their memories, that they'll have learned the same thing!
