A Good Man

 I wrote once that there are many definitions of a father. Ask one hundred people and you’ll get the same number of answers. Mine is as complicated as the question because forming words about my dad isn’t as easy as it sounds.

What I will tell you is that I will always be grateful for Alfred because he gave me two of the greatest gifts in the world. One, of course, is life itself, and the second is that life with my mother. To many, the two of them were probably, at first glance, a mismatched pair. That also describes the two of us.

Over the years, I heard repeatedly how good a man my father was, and as I got older, I realized that assessment couldn’t have been truer. I won’t deny that it took a long time for me to get there. My understanding of him has been a work in progress, with countless hours spent on therapist couches; long talks with my mother; and finally, a letter-writing campaign with the director himself. What we couldn’t articulate in person was easier to convey on the page. I learned about everything from his childhood to his time in the Army, his monumental meet-cute with Rosemarie, life on Carney Street, and more.

“What a happy kid I was,” he wrote me, describing a time in his childhood. It was the first time I pictured my dad as both a kid AND happy. His letters made more sense to me than all the years of heated discussions and arguments between us. I was constantly frustrated by his answers. For instance, he worked at the post office for years, and in all that time, I never really knew what he did. “I fix the machines,” he’d say.

“What happens if they don’t break?”

“They always break.”

There you have it—that was my dad. That was Alfred. Short and to the point. I used to envy people who had fathers who said more and were involved in their kids’ lives. Maybe I didn’t need him to be. He let my mother lead the way, and for that I will be eternally grateful. There was no greater gift in my life than my mother. But this day is about honoring someone who might seem like a puzzle to many. And I love solving a good puzzle, even when it stumps me, because the journey to the answer is always full of surprises. What I can tell you is that through all our letter-writing, I think my father and I finally made it on the same page.

Alfred was a good man. He was a good father. He loved his brothers, and spending time with their families brought him so much joy. He took his responsibility as head of household seriously. He provided a home and never wavered with his support. Even when I didn’t agree with him. He supported my move to California to start a life that was so different from his own.

I told someone once that there are no memories of just me and my dad without my mother in them. But I don’t fault him for that. It was the way things were, but boy, did we have some good times. People will say rarely laughed, and that may be true. But I will leave you with one story that brings me joy.

Long ago, we were all in his ’69 Chevy Impala, on the way to the only restaurant he would agree to eat at—the Hilltop Steak House. The way there was down the long and winding Jerry Jingle Highway. There were traffic lights galore, and as we approached—each one turned green. First one, then the next, then the next! He sped up. There was one last one to go before the highway opened when suddenly—a red light. My dad burst out laughing, and he turned around to the back and said, laughing, “Oh, we almost made it!”

I can still hear the joy emanating from inside that car.

Yes. Dad. Rest Easy. We almost did.

My Dad with his aunt Clementine- the Mother Superior 

 circa 1956.