Gems from my father

There’s a saying: The older I get, the smarter my father gets.

I’m embarrassed to say it’s taken me nearly 60 years to figure that out. Somewhat hard-headed. Like him.

For my father, being on time meant arriving early. In his mind, if you were on time, you were late. I did not inherit this gene.

Even in his last days, Dad kept one eye on the clock. 

“They’re late,” he said on the Sunday before officially departing this life, visibly ticked off at the tardiness of death’s knell. “Those guys in the dark suits. They’re supposed to be here.”

But they weren’t. Not yet.

It had been a difficult six months for Dad, who was 87 and known as Jimmy John well before the franchised sandwich chain was formed.

My mother, Elia – his wife of 64 years and 10 months – had died on Dec. 1, 2008. She was 88, overtaken by congestive heart failure but not quite ready to go. That’s another story.

With her passing, Dad lost his wife, the mother of his three daughters, his best friend and sparring partner. Family and friends had dubbed them “The Bickersons,” after a radio comedy series from the 1940s. The show’s married protagonists spent most of their time embroiled in verbal spats.

“I’ve known that woman longer than anyone in my life,” he had whispered between uncontrollable tears I’d never seen him shed as mom slipped away that cold winter Monday.

That woman. Always struck me as so perfect hearing him say that. Curt to some, yet loving in my father’s mind.

After mom’s death, Dad was never the same. About five months later, he was gone, too. Clearly, he couldn’t live without her.

My Syrian father and I had not been what you’d call close. He was the strong, silent type. A man of few words. I knew he loved me, but he didn’t like saying it. Perhaps a generational thing. Or maybe it was just him.

My northern Italian mother, God bless her, wore her heart on her sleeve and had a knack for boiling down emotions to pointed sound bites.

“You’re just like your father,” she’d say, shaking her head, whenever I’d harp about his stubborn or perfectionist nature.

“Sometimes he’s such an asshole,” I once blurted out. Once.

“Don’t talk about your father that way!” she snapped back.

Calling them at home was predictable. Dad would answer the phone and say, “Hi, Babe. How you doing? Working hard or hardly working? Hold on, let me get your mother.” Then, the harvest-gold princess phone handoff.

I was their youngest daughter, who, in 1960, arrived well into their marriage, as they both approached 40 in what was then considered middle age. My two sisters were teen-agers and horrified that their parents still had sex.

But my folks said I kept them young. And since I was blessed to have them for nearly 50 years, I’ll take that as fact.

Dad taught me to play catch. He took me to Detroit Tigers baseball games. He watched me play (but mostly ride the bench) softball, volleyball and basketball. Perhaps I was the son he never had. Could be why they nicknamed me “Jinny” because it sounded like Jimmy.

It has been 10 years since my father’s passing on May 20, 2009, a warm Wednesday with chirping birds and blooming flowers. Miss him more than I can say. Especially during baseball season.

In that spring of 2009, as Dad’s heart worsened, and he slowly faded away, my sisters and I hunkered down and stayed close, as we had done for our mother. But Dad didn’t fight what he knew was coming. He was ready.

The night before his death, I tried falling asleep on my oldest sister’s living room sofa. Futile. I got up, walked into the master bedroom and sat on the floor beside Dad in his rented hospital bed under the bay window.

When I awoke before midnight, I was holding his hand. He was gone.

I only wish he’d been a little late just this once.

That said, on this third Sunday in June, here are a few gems from my father:

~Never let your gas tank get below half. Because you never know when you’re going to run into a multi-car pileup on I-75 and you’re stuck sitting there for hours in a raging snowstorm.
~Change your oil every 3,000 miles. Because if you don’t, it will mess up the engine and do you really think your mother and I are made of money?
~Never live above your means. Because if you do, you’ll be flush with material things until one day it pours and your rainy day fund is dried up.
~Be on time. Because being on time means being 15 minutes early, whether you’re going to work, out to eat or to the airport — especially the airport.
~Ask your mother. Because I don’t want to talk about whatever it is you just asked me and she knows best, except if it’s about cars.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I miss you. You made a difference in so many lives — especially mine.