To tell you about my dad, I also have to tell you a bit about my mom - their lives were so intertwined. They lived together almost twice as long as they had lived as singles; had my mother lived five more months, they'd have celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.
My parents were immigrants. They left their village in Sao Miguel, Acores, Portugal, to make a better life for themselves and their future children (me and my brother). My mother came first with her father and brothers. About 2 years later, she went back to Sao Miguel to marry my dad in May, then returned to America. My dad arrived the following January.
Before they got their own apartment, my dad moved in with my mother in my grandparents' home and started working the third shift at American Insulated Wire in Pawtucket. A month after his arrival, my mother got pregnant - complete with a long bout of morning sickness. In this different, non-tropical climate, his blondish wavy hair grew darker brown. On weekends, he was expected to live the life of a day worker - chores, shopping, Sunday morning church services followed by big family dinner - when all he wanted to do was sleep. He had no family or friends of his own except his new family and their friends. Years later, he mused that in those early days if he'd been able to walk back to the Acores, he would have, LOL.
Eventually, he switched to the day shift, and worked 12 hours a day for years. He stayed at the same place until his retirement - about 40 years - making all modes of rubber- and plastic-coated copper wire. He never quite learned perfect English - he didn't have to; my mother took care of the day-to-day details and he worked in a conclave of fellow Portuguese immigrants. When I was 4, my parents bought a 5-room ranch - eventually expanded to an 8-room home when the basement was remodeled with a family room, second kitchen - in Fairlawn, where my brother and I lived until we left the nest. Ironically, my parents bought a larger house after my brother and I each married; our growing families made it hard for my mom to have us all together for dinner, so a big colonial with a separate dining room was in order. : )
After my brother was born, my mother worked second shift at a mill. That allowed her to be with us in the morning to get us off to school; we'd go to my grandparents' after school, and my dad picked us up there after work. He'd feed us supper, give us baths, supervise our nightly prayers, and tuck us into bed. Growing up, we didn't go on "vacations" but we went almost every Saturday night in summer to the drive-in. That was in the days of good, family-oriented double-features, and huge, fun playgrounds with lots of other children and families doing the same thing. To escape the heat of the city, we often went often to Lincoln Woods or Colt State Park on Sundays after church, to picnic in the shade and wade or swim in the water (it was so different then).
A fiery spirit, he blustered in quick anger - usually justified - then cooled as quickly. I inherited my unwavering sense of justice - and that cute dimple in the chin - from him. I inherited his temper, too, but that's a story for another day.I never quite appreciated him as a man when I was a kid - he was my dad, after all, not a man, right? But one day when I was in my late teens, he and I were chatting at the counter about something or other, and the light from the open doorway shone just right on his face - without his glasses on - and I realized his eyes were not really just brown, but a beautiful gold, with flecks of color. I finally saw my dad as a man that day. He was quite a character. In his own way, he was a fun-loving and funny guy, and he was unquestionably dedicated to my mother, his kids, his religion, not necessarily in that order.
My mother retired two years after he did. They did some world traveling in their later years - finally taking time for themselves. When my mother was only 66, she started her free-fall into the black hole of Alzheimer's disease. It is such a heartbreak to look into the empty eyes of the mother who loved you more than her own life, and know she doesn't know who you are.
My brother and I began cleaning out our parents' home, dividing and dispersing the possessions they worked a lifetime to collect. Each drawer my brother and I opened revealed another fragment of their lives - our lives - that we know intimately, remember fondly, had forgotten about, or never even knew. It's an amazing journey. Drawers so orderly, items neatly folded or filed in short stacks. There were notes here and there in my father's handwriting - as if he knew he would have to guide my brother and me through all the sorting.
My mother died years before her body was buried, so I grieved in slow small ways, gradually. Although I scour the memory files in my mind, I can't conjure the last time I heard her say, "I love you, Lucie," even though she said it so often in my life.
My dad's death, however, still has me struggling. Responding to what I thought was a cold - pneumonia at worst - was in fact a massive heart attack, completely unexpected and very efficient; he died a few short hours after the ambulance took him to the hospital. My brother and I were there the whole time, holding his hands, stroking his forehead, watching in disbelief as this simple, humble, wonderful man with the strength of love of a dozen men, slipped from our midst.
I still miss my dad so much. Happy Father's Day, Dad.
