Wonderful writer (and friend) Brad Holway has written some short memories of his father, a NYC transit worker. What I love about these vignettes is the extraordinary ordinariness of the details which add up to a real live person. Read the shorts below and then check out his book, chock full of the same marvelous detail, When Jack Was With Us here. Here's Brad:
AS FATHERS' DAY APPROACHES...
...I naturally think of my own father, who died almost twenty years ago. I'm not going to write the usual schmaltzy, smarmy tribute you often see at this time of year, when people depict their departed dads as saints. My father was a flawed human being, just like the rest of us. Instead, I prefer to share some fragmentary memories; some humorous, some poignant.
My father grew up in a suburb of Buffalo. Despite his many years in New York City, he never lost his Buffalonian accent. Now that I look backward in time, he probably reveled in it! He was a big fan of Jack Kennedy and would do JFK imitations that weren't very good. Ever hear a Buffalonian imitating a Bostonian? I can only describe it as a unique experience.
I enjoyed our trips to The Bronx Zoo, particularly our visits to the Reptile House. He used to call the snakes "sops". I guess that was a Buffalonian expression. He also called burgers "blowout patches".
I got in trouble in kindergarten for calling the teacher an "old toad". That trouble was so deep that the teacher demanded to see him; this was beyond having my mother get scolded. He returned and lectured me about not giving lip to the teachers but he added that this one really WAS an old toad.
When I was a kid, I was crazy about dinosaurs and I had a collection of those hard rubber dinos they used to sell at the "five-and-tens". He'd call my dinosaurs "prehistorics".
On Friday and Saturday nights, I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted. My mother and I would watch horror and science fiction movies together. My dad, who was a transit worker, would come home at around 2:00 A.M. with a bagful of hot bagels. We'd slice them, slather them with butter and eat them while they were still practically steaming. I still remember that smell!
I could go on, but I won't. I just wanted to share a few fragments of memory as Fathers' Day approaches.
...I naturally think of my own father, who died almost twenty years ago. I'm not going to write the usual schmaltzy, smarmy tribute you often see at this time of year, when people depict their departed dads as saints. My father was a flawed human being, just like the rest of us. Instead, I prefer to share some fragmentary memories; some humorous, some poignant.
My father grew up in a suburb of Buffalo. Despite his many years in New York City, he never lost his Buffalonian accent. Now that I look backward in time, he probably reveled in it! He was a big fan of Jack Kennedy and would do JFK imitations that weren't very good. Ever hear a Buffalonian imitating a Bostonian? I can only describe it as a unique experience.
I enjoyed our trips to The Bronx Zoo, particularly our visits to the Reptile House. He used to call the snakes "sops". I guess that was a Buffalonian expression. He also called burgers "blowout patches".
I got in trouble in kindergarten for calling the teacher an "old toad". That trouble was so deep that the teacher demanded to see him; this was beyond having my mother get scolded. He returned and lectured me about not giving lip to the teachers but he added that this one really WAS an old toad.
When I was a kid, I was crazy about dinosaurs and I had a collection of those hard rubber dinos they used to sell at the "five-and-tens". He'd call my dinosaurs "prehistorics".
On Friday and Saturday nights, I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted. My mother and I would watch horror and science fiction movies together. My dad, who was a transit worker, would come home at around 2:00 A.M. with a bagful of hot bagels. We'd slice them, slather them with butter and eat them while they were still practically steaming. I still remember that smell!
I could go on, but I won't. I just wanted to share a few fragments of memory as Fathers' Day approaches.
Happy Father's Day to you, too, Brad
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