"Father's Day Reflections"

I sure wish I could sit and talk with my Dad a few more times. I'll bet a lot of guys in their sixties say that. But the actuarial tables show that fewer and fewer of us will ever have that privilege again. My Dad was born in 1911, the third of seven children, and the first one born in America. They came from politically ravaged Slovenia. Too many border and name changes to list, but in short it was the Austrian-Hungarian Empire... and then Yugoslavia... and most recently independent sovereignty for the Alpine country, South of Austria and around the tip of Northern Italy.

These guys were tough. They came to Ellis Island, had their names "Americanized," and settled in Pennsylvania as coal miners and farmers. They got to experience The Great Depression first-hand. Dad dropped out of school after seventh grade and went to work in the mines. No wonder he was such a hard drinker. No wonder he was not a SNAG (Sensitive New Age Guy). He was hard-scrabble and often withdrawn. He treated me OK, but the "Life Lessons" were often way off base. If the waitress at the diner undercharged us, his attitude was, "Let's go, it's not my fault if she's that bad at math." Somehow I knew better... and I'm glad. Must have been the nuns at school. I sure did love him, though... Warts and all. Treated my friends nice. And both my brother and I (good or bad) unwittingly inherited his sense of humor... "Can you say, "The sun the sun, but not the moon"?" "Sure... "The sun the sun, but not the moon"." "Nope... I told you not to say the moon."

He and my Mom had the most confusing relationship imaginable. They stayed together, but I don't know how... or why. The times were different, I guess, and divorces were rare. I have lots of "not so happy " memories of them screaming at each other (never beyond that, thank God)... most always fueled by alcohol. And the rides home after a day at the old farm were terrible. Weaving and swerving... and the loud bickering... while I sunk deep into the back seat, wondering if we'd make it home. I swore I'd be better at all of these things than he was when I grew up.

Now I've got four of my own... (Andrea -39, Susan-36, Chelsea-26, and Zachary-20)... All grown up and moved away. Each of them is missed in a uniquely personal way. Nearly every night, before sleep comes, I toss them around the caverns of my mind. Each one - separate and distinct - in their own special ways. I know how much I love them... and I am made whole by their love in return. I wonder what they think about on Father's Day? Did I do any better than my Dad? What flaws of mine eat away at my three girls and lone son? Perfect, I have not been. But I love each of them, beyond the capability of my words to describe. I look for the cards for a week in advance... and I'm like a little kid when the mail yields one. Today the calls will come... and as they do, I'll be a happy man. Life is a challenge - with so many twists and turns. But on Father's Day, my prayer is that I've been up to the challenge. I pray that I've put a major, positive stamp on their lives... and that they both recognize and appreciate it. I hope they've picked up my "good stuff" and learned from my "not so good stuff."

When bad things popped up in life, my Dad would say, "It's always something, Franky... It's always something." He was right, of course. Did I handle most of the "somethings" well? As parents themselves, will my kids see decent lessons from my example? Sure hope so...