It seems as though the Man always had a bit of a beer belly, and often a cigar sticking out of his teeth. His favorite brand was Hav-a-Tampa. For unexplained reasons, when I saw him with the cigar, I would know things were right with the world. He worked hard for forty years at the now defunct Eastern Airlines, where he was required to wear a uniform. This was good for him because he really had no sense of style in clothing. Plaids and stripes always went together for him, along with a floppy hat. This was perfect attire for fishing trips.
Fishing was probably his favorite pastime. In the early years, he loved to take his sons fishing out on a boat in Biscayne Bay or off the bank of a local canal. During those times, he would teach them about generosity and the importance of treating all people with respect. In the 1950’s and early 1960’s, Miami was a segregated city and in some ways it still is. On most of the canal trips, I recall seeing many black people, entire families sometimes, fishing with cane poles and worms. On one trip when I alone went with him, I questioned the Man about why those people dressed so shabby, and why entire families were there. He explained that those people were poor and they depended on the fish they caught for food. He talked about how society was unjust to black people, and how things came to be that way. I had no idea how bad it was for them. “If you treat others as you want them to treat you, you will never disrespect another human being. The color of a man’s skin tells you nothing about the man,” he said. I have never forgotten those words, and apply them in my own life.
He encouraged the children to do the best they could in school. “Never be late, and never miss a day of school unless you are too sick to get up,” he would tell them. In forty years on the job, I cannot recall him ever missing a day of work due to sickness. Though he did not graduate from high school because of the war, he understood the importance of an education. The Man was stern and ruled over the house. He expected the children to obey him without question. All the children had their share of chores around the house. If one forgot or neglected a task, that person would have to answer to the Man. Nothing was more fearful then the warning from Mother, “wait until your Father gets home!”
He was tough on the boys, and when necessary, applied the thick leather Marine Corps belt to their backsides. With the girls, he used a different approach. “Go to your room”, he would say, “and no record playing!” That always worked. One of his least favorite expressions was “yeah, but.” Because, you see, “yeah, but” sounded like an excuse to him. He did not want to hear excuses, only results. Unless things were running smoothly, you could expect him to be on the prowl and feisty.
I think that the Man’s affinity for smelly foods may have partly contributed to his demeanor. He used to love to sit on the porch while eating canned sardines and Limburger cheese. The smell of the Limburger would keep most sane people away. I, while holding my nose, attempted to approach him because I did like the sardines. Occasionally, he would let me have a sip of his beer along with a sardine or two. I enjoyed his company then. It was during those times I was able to talk to him, though generally I found it difficult to communicate with him.
I remember when I was ready to learn how to drive. The 1959 Plymouth would become mine one day, so it was that car I must drive. Now the Plymouth had a manual transmission, making it extra difficult to learn driving skills. On the parking lot of the Hialeah Racetrack, which was only a few miles from the house, I took my lessons. After numerous tries coordinating the gas and the clutch, I felt ready to give it the gas. I pressed the pedal and the car lurched forward, reaching a speed of twenty miles per hour. When suddenly, “bang”, a hand slapped the metal dashboard. “Slow this vehicle down!” a voice barked. It so scared me, I nearly ran into a tree. In due time, however, I did learn how to drive and the Man was satisfied. He felt responsible to teach the things he knew. Responsibility could have been his middle name.
For most of his adult life, he accepted the responsibility for his mother. In the early 1950’s, she was in an accident that left her paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. Though there were older siblings, he alone shouldered the obligation to care for her. Whenever necessary, he would go help her at the apartment where she lived. Over the holidays, he would bring her to the family home to visit and have dinner. This was no small feat, as she was very heavy and difficult to maneuver into and out of a car. Additionally, his mother was ornery and she loved to gripe. Yet, he put up with her antics for many years. He never complained about his situation, and when she died, he was heartbroken.
After he retired from Eastern Airlines, the Man no longer felt useful. He was comfortable sitting in his garage, drinking a few beers, smoking a cigar and visiting with his five grown children. He had mellowed by that time, and it actually became pleasant to talk with him. Those times were fleeting, and circumstances changed dramatically in a short time. There was wanderlust in his heart, and all of the children knew it. The Mother knew it also. He was no longer the happy man he once was. He tried to blame his problems on alcohol, going so far as to check into a rehab center. Most of us knew that was merely a contributing factor, not the real problem.
His marriage eventually fell apart, and he moved out of his home to live with another woman. He had to find work in order to pay for the extra expenses, so he took a part time job at a grocery store. Around the same time, he began volunteer work at a local elementary school teaching children how to use computers. He loved every minute of the time there, telling me later that should have been his calling in life. On the surface, at least, he seemed happy. I sensed that he had deep doubts about his life. Perhaps in some way he knew what was about to happen to him.
In the spring of 1993, cancer took over his body, yet he took the news graciously. He called me one night to tell me about the diagnosis, asking me what I thought about it as though he had made a bad investment. Yet, he seemed at peace about his sad condition. During the summer and fall, I went to visit him several times. Each time, he wanted to talk about his life and things he loved. So talk we did, and to my surprise, he regretted many things. Foremost on his mind was how poorly he had treated his wife. One other thing bothered him a lot. At the age of eleven, a car accident killed his older brother. The family could never afford a proper headstone, and now, after some sixty years, he wanted to buy one. The responsible person that he was, he had a headstone made, and had it placed on his brother’s grave in Miami.
He did not regret how he raised his children. He was very proud of the way they all turned out as adults. Towards the end, all his children would come, together and individually, to see him knowing that his days were numbered. When the Man, my father, took his last breath of life, I was there to hold his hand and say goodbye.
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