A post for my dad....
It is interesting reading all the comments on social media from people having the 'Best Dad in the World,' etc... etc...
I don't begrudge anyone having a great dad; I think everyone SHOULD!
My dad was not a great dad. I think most people would score him as a 'good guy.'
He was not abusive, although he did spank us. There was no locking us in the basement for starvation, or pummeling till we cried for mercy, or any horror stories like that.
My dad did not scale mountains, or provide inspiration for millions... or thousands, or really hundreds.
But my dad was a good guy.
My dad was a weak man. He was drawn to alcohol and gambling. He wanted the 'fast buck.' He was embarrassed to be the son of immigrants, embarrassed by his father's heavy Irish brogue; His dad was 'off the boat,' a 'Mick.'
My dad wanted to be popular, he wanted to be the center of attention. When he was weak, alcohol would always fill in the gaps for him. When he did not know how to handle 2 rowdy boys and a rebellious youngest daughter, he turned to his good friend in the bottle, the one who would always be there for him, who would never let him down; always there to take the pain away.
My dad's mother never smiled.
I was fortunate a few years ago; Nicole, Thomas, and I went to stay at my Godfather's place in Naples, Florida. My Godfather (my uncle Jim) is the only person who knew my dad when he was still in high school; my mom would meet him quite a bit after that. My Godfather dated and then married my dad's big sister, Mary. Mary and Thomas; you can't really get more Irish than that, unless you fill out the list of other saint's names (Patrick, James, Michael, Bridget, Anne, Theresa, Nancy, etc... Ireland, the Land of Saints and Scholars, ya know.)
While we were there, I had the chance to find out a bit more about my dad, who died from cancer at the age of 57, in 1994.
My dad was a firefighter for the City of Chicago. In my uncle's words, "Your dad was the best firefighter the city had ever had. He could walk into a burning building that nobody else would even look in the door, and he would walk out carrying people from inside the building, and there would not be a scratch or burn on him. But your dad was a weak man. A good man, but a weak man."
My dad was my hero when I was younger (As it should be for every father.) He was big and strong, and he saved people and put out fires.
My dad was typical of firefighters of that era. He would come out of a burning building, smoke rising off of his heavy coat and helmet, coughing his lungs out, sit down on the side of the fire truck, pull out a pack of Camel cigarettes, and light up.
But my dad wanted to make the fast buck; he gambled, and got in trouble with the Mob. At one point he had to go to my Godfather, and ask him for money; The Mob had called his card due, and they were threatening harm to his children. He had nowhere to turn. My Godfather bailed him out. He wanted a better life, but he did not know how to get there. And then when the clouds were darkest, he could always turn to his friend in the bottle.
My dad had a laugh that would set off car alarms. He had a wicked good sense of humor, and he loved when something was just not what it seemed. We were at (at the time) Marriott's Great America (now Six Flags) and I remember he ordered something he thought sounded great, something he had never heard of, a 'pickle on a stick.' Well, he got the pickle on the stick. And he laughed... and laughed... and laughed... "it's a pickle... on a stick"... hahahahha. Oh, man, did he laugh. "The joke is on me, it is a pickle on a stick!"
My dad loved to cook, and he had some training. Some of my favorite memories are my dad cooking the big holiday dinners. Making stuffing from scratch, making sauces, basting the turkey. My dad showed me, although he was never able to 'teach' me, how to pay attention to food. How to love food. My dad was never fancy; he just wanted his food to taste good. But he loved it. He could make anything taste good.
My dad loved to dance. Even when he as starting to have problems with cancer and emphysema,he wanted to dance. I remember hearing on Polish Radio these words during a break in the news... "... and that congenial Irishman, Tommy Donohue, will be having his annual Polka Party at the Highlanders [Polish Highlander's Club, at Archer and Pulaski in Chicago] this Valentine's Day. Bring the kids, our good friend Eddie Blazonczyk and his Versatones will be playing for all of us..."
Eddie was a Grammy Polka winner, and he played my dad's polka party... the polka party from an Irishman.
My dad loved golf. ... and he stunk. Well, ok, he was not terrible, but he was not remotely good given how much he played. We were members at Ridge Country Club, originally as Social Members, which allowed us kids to swim all summer long, and then as Regular Members, so my dad could golf on his days off, and hobnob with people more successful than he was. He taught me to love golf. All of the subtle ways a ball can move on you.
Another favorite memory of mine is playing golf with my dad. Love of golf was killed by a horrible coach in High School... but I loved golfing with my dad. In golf, a golf hole has a 'handicap,' which tells you how hard the holes are in relation to the other holes on the course. So you play holes 1-18, but they could be in order of difficulty 1 (hardest,) 5,17,3,18... etc. We were playing a father/son tournament, and the 4th hole at Ridge was the Par 1; hardest hole on the golf course... a long par 4 (4 shots to get into the cup, for non-golfers.) My dad shanked his drive into the grass left of the fairway and barely beyond the tee. The tourny was 'alternate shot,' so that meant I got to go next. My dad was saying how much he hated this hole, he had never gotten par on it, and probably never would.
I picked out a 'ginty,' which was a wood with a metal prow under the base. My dad thought I shoudl use an iron, but I went with this club.
Well, I crushed it. Got every possible inch out of that club. Massive swing, massive hit, all the stars aligned and I hit the daylights out of that ball.
It popped up out of the grass, sailed over the entire fairway, and rolled up onto the green about 10 feet from the pin. My dad was jumping and yelling "That's my son!! did you see that shot?? That's my son!! Wow!!" We still had 2 shots to go to make 'par,' and we were on the green.
Dad hit a bit of a dead putt, and it stopped about 4 feet from the hole. The dreaded 3/4 foot putt range.
I just walked up calmly and putted it right into the hole. My dad picked me up and wanted to carry me off the green. He was yelling for the world to hear. It was so much fun.
We came in 2nd place in the tourny, to Ed Hayes and his dad. Good people to lose to, if you knew how well they golfed!
As a teenager, I made the inevitable drift away from my parents. I disliked my mom and I disliked my dad. I would argue about anything and everything. I had rights, you can't make me do anything, all the teen angst, everything you can imagine. It was so incredibly silly, and looking back, it is sad to think of those years when I could have enjoyed having my father around when instead I spurned him. I loved him, but I did not like him.
High school was rough. I needed my dad to help guide me through, but his weakness for alcohol took its toll. My mother filed for a divorce; that was the only way to make him shape up... and being removed from his family did not help at all.
He showed up at one of my band shows drunk. He was friends with our director, and when I saw him I ran up to say I was glad he had made it, but he was drunk. I could tell before I got close. All I wanted to do was forget he existed. I was so heartbroken, although I am sure it came out as anger at the time. I don't even know if I said more than 5 words to him.
My dad was why I got involved with music. He played flute when he was younger, and he had quite a bit of aptitude for it. He most likely could have played at the concert level, if he put his mind to it, from what little I have heard, but he was weak, he wanted to be popular, and that was not 'in.'
But I played saxophone because of him, and that led to playing flute for concert band, and then guitar and then bass. He loved music... all kinds of music. But he wanted music to dance to. I met so many amazing people in band, and that led to theater, and there I finally found my voice, and developed the social skills that I am lucky to posses (or to be possessed by, the jury is still out.)
We rarely spoke much after I dropped out of college. I could not reconcile his drinking, and he could not find a way to reach through the ever thickening fog to reach me.
We still had some great moments. We had a lot of them, and I loved to see him, but I couldn't stand to see him drunk, and he drank all the time.
He wanted me to go to a trade school, since I dropped out of college. Get a good job. Make some money. Be a good person.
He always told me You treat a lady like a lady, period. Always walk on the outside, always open the doors, always be deferential. Have respect for ladies, right up to the point when they prove themselves to no long be ladies, and even then you open car doors for them.
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My dad never understood why I started flying, and I never got to take him up in a plane. I knwo he would have loved it. He took such joy in living... it was so heart breaking watching him sink down further and further.
We all have Demons. Some of us are equipped to fight them, some of us get the strength from our parents, some from friends, some from Faith. My dad had no backup plan.
He was a very affectionate guy. He loved big hugs. His parents never were able to show him affection, especially his mother, who was one of the coldest women in history. When my Godfather married Mary [Uncle Jim's story here,] he said he went to shake his now mother-in-law's hand, and she did not even flinch; she never reached out her hand, she just smiled and said 'congratulations,' and then stopped smiling again. How would your life be if that was all you had to draw upon?
My dad was a good guy, not a great man. We all have our demons, and some of us fight a losing battle.
My dad loved to laugh, he loved music and dance. He was a fun guy to be around. He tried to be the life of the party, when he didn't even notice that people just liked having him around when he wasn't the life of the party... but he never noticed that.
I miss my dad.
I wish I could talk to him, and tell a younger him that it would be ok, that he could be a good man, that just being a father and trying to raise 3 kids when you had no examples of familial love but still being a good guy would WORK OUT. I would tell him that there is so much more that he could experience, and that his family wanted him home. He was not prepared for being alone, because that is all he got from his own mother, abandonment. He had no tools to fight his demons.
I wish he could meet the amazing loving incredible little boy that is named after him. Thomas Donohue. He is just the most beautiful boy, and I think my dad would be tickled constantly to know him, to see him and hear him with his name, and to see how much love it is possible to have.
I love my dad so much I wanted our son named after him.
The grandson he will never meet in person, but who has his spirit and love of music, and fun, and laughter... and his name.
My dad loved all of us in the only way he could, and to the best of his abilities. We loved him too, but there is no fairy tale ending; we were never fully reconciled to each other before his race to doom let him forgo cancer treatments, and he just let himself die.
My dad was a good man. Not a great man, but a good man.
Happy Father's Dad, dad. I am sorry you missed so much, but I know you love all the same.
Your son,
Scott
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