I jogged.
Felt the crisp air in my lungs and Harper tug anxiously at her leash. Made my way across the railroad tracks, it was a couple blocks by then, I was tiring. Pondered turning around and making my way back home but I decided to go on, toward the Italian Sons and Daughters of America building, the "club". That was my Father's favorite dwelling place during the winter months. As I made my way across the carnival grounds I imagined a familiar sight.
The usual suspects gathered around playing poker, discussing football and small town politics. Most of them I've known since I was a boy. A good group of guys, the epicenter being the man stretched out on his favorite leather recliner. Decked in his trademark flannel and dusty baseball cap, I imagined he'd be watching something sports related on the flat screen before him, either that or an episode of his favorite show at that time, Game of Thrones. Harper picked up speed as the club was in earshot, we entered, it was exactly how I pictured. He turned around and spotted us, a small grin and then "Harpley!" he exclaimed, purposely screwing up her name. Another trademark of his.
I was only there long enough for him to feed Harper a bowl of meatballs and very loudly inform everyone in the club that Harper was a "real dog" unlike the "shit dogs" they all had. He then proceeded to give a rudimentary explanation of Game of Thrones to me, stating that I would probably like it because "it had monsters and dragons in it" and reminded me as we exited that my brother Dave was treating us all to Oyster Creek that coming Friday night, something about a bet.
That was one year ago today.
In the days that followed, my Parent's house was filled with sandwich trays and watery eyes, family members and friends sharing stories and the occasional laugh. The house, which had become quiet over the years was once more filled with life. The night of his viewing, cars overflowed the church parking lot out onto the highway, an unprecedented mass of people waited in line, some in the snow, to pay their final respects.
Much has changed in the 365 days since my Father's passing, for one is the feeling of loss. It lingers but it has dulled ever so slightly. My Family and I can't help but to think of him every time my daughter Nina does anything, from the big things to the little things, like breaking some wind, which he would have admired so. Moments we collectively wish he was still around for, to hear his gruff voice, to watch his mouth widen, hands rub together and his silent laugh echo throughout time. As she flashes a huge smile, I look into her eyes and at times catch myself getting angry at the thought of her being robbed of a wonderful Grandfather.
Sure, it would be easy to mope now and again. But would he want us to?
Of all the things I learned from him, the one I keep going back to, the one that got me through his passing was the ability to go on. To patiently persevere, in good times and more importantly, the bad ones. It's that patience, that spirit, that love of life no matter what, that I watched and admired. He taught my Brother and I through his actions, never through heavy handed talks or lectures. I like to believe we're good men because of it, because of him.
What I knew of my Father was that he worked himself to the bone. He managed to make people angry and chuckle, usually at the same time. He spoke too loudly now and again, but always meant everything he said. He loved my Mother unconditionally. He afforded the opportunity for Dave and I to come of age, both in our own ways. To find ourselves and each other again, through him. In the final years of his life he loved my wife Jamie like his own daughter, some of my fondest memories are the two of them teasing each other and sharing a big laugh.
I was able to have one good Summer on the farm with him. One night we were working late and he wanted the four of us, he and my Mother, Jamie and I, to have dinner together. It was simply ordering some Chinese and eating it on the picnic bench smack dab in the middle of the packing house. The huge loading dock doors were open, a light breeze swept through, carrying the song of a July evening in South Jersey. He called it "dining al fresca". He was happy.
I remember him that night. I remember Dave and I climbing all over him on our living room floor or boxing us out for a rebound in the backyard, a growl as he exerted himself.
I remember a perfect night in Epcot, under the fireworks, a cardboard tray of hot chocolates and churros. Him and Jamie wrapped in their brand new Mexican blankets.
I remember May 1st, 2010. When he owned the dance floor, swinging his bride and then mine, then all of his nieces, every lady on the floor from 9 to 95.
Mostly I just remember him.
On this day and always.
