“…One more day
One more time
One more sunset, maybe I’d be satisfied
But then again
I know what it would do:
Leave me wishing still for one more day with you….”
Tomberlin, Jones
His eyes closed years ago, but he just didn’t die. Not to me, anyway. In the quarter century since my Pop went silent, there has never been a moment—good or bad—that I haven’t felt his presence; there has never been a time, for that matter, that I didn’t feel his strength.
He was special. He was unique. He was my father. He loved the past and revered the present. He was my father.
Driving ‘cross country, I couldn’t help but think how happy he’d have been with my day …how he’d have enjoyed just taking the ride.
My Dad loved cars. Oh, not race cars, or engines—nothing mechanical. Hardly! The man reveled just BEING in a car. He would drive with Harriet or his boys…anywhere. Indeed, on a sunny day like Thursday, even on the anniversary of his death—had he known I was heading east—he’d have offered to pick me up. Just because. Window open, left elbow dangled out, AC a’ blastin’, he’d have scooped me up at my office and exulted to eight hours of big band music all-the-while urging me off the phone.
- Still in Ohio I had a conference call with the guys. Typical nonsense. “Don’t you think Bobby and Stuart can live without you for a few hours?” he’d urge, (‘though loving it all). Indeed, merely knowing that on August 9, 2012, years post-his-mortem, I was still in contact with a Fenton, a Snyder and a Baskin (of sorts), would have made his day.
He asked so little! Just hearing my half of interstate conversations with my brother, his sister and the like would have made him smile.
“Remember when I slept in the lobby of the Holiday Inn-Dubois?” I’d ask.
“You were in such a hurry to get home, weren’t you? Alan Wieder couldn’t wait?”
“I was coming from seeing Feder in Nicholson, Pennsylvania.” “I know,” he remind. “You insisted on driving through the night.”
- Stayed on Route 80 last night. Not at a Red Roof Inn, mind you. (How he loved that motel chain. In an era of Holiday Inns, pass a scarlet billboard on the highway anytime in the Nixon administration and he’d loudly proclaim: “Look, “Sleep Cheap!” (like he was reading it for the very first time….like we were hearing it for the first time)!
We’d stop for the night. Often. Day trips, he taught me, were done in two days.
“Let’s drive half-way the night before,” I’d hear, “And head in in the morning.”
It all made sense. We’d make the call before leaving: 1-800-THE ROOF. It would all be set. Then we’d pause as he’d planned…for the night.
There was more, yet, to his game. Al Bogart would forage exits —for proper cuisine. Teaching his sons neither to hunt for game nor to pitch a tent, his counseling entailed, rather, the proper securing of provisions.
“Don’t eat at restaurants,” he’d advise, “With dirty bathrooms.” To our Dad, though, pastry trumped entree. As such, he’d pass on dinner if an adequate bakery surfaced. Even then his mandate was clear: “Don’t ask if it’s fresh,” he demanded, “Ask if it’s TODAY’S”.
These are simple treasures, these memories. In a lifetime where others knew prices, our father taught values. And he taught them with the one glue that never unhinges: unconditional love….
Which is why Friday, exiting an Econo Lodge one hour from New York, heading for the GW Bridge to be guided in by a my son named for my Dad’s father, I know the Old Man was up there beaming.
As was I.
You made my day too.
Too bad you couldn’t see him maneuver Northern Blvd in 1971. He was like pac man crossing the street to reach a bakery because the Chinese Restaurant we were at did not have bread.