Posted by Kathleen Pooler/@kathypooler
“What a father says to his children is not heard by the world, but it will be heard by posterity.” Jean Paul Richter
I was blessed with a remarkable father, Bob, whom I looked up to my entire life. He died in 2010 leaving our family with a legacy of love and wise guidance.
Dad shows up a lot in my memoir; the symbol of strength and wisdom, the voice of reason, the calm in the storm.
Eight months before he died, I interviewed him. Typically, a man of few words, he spewed out a litany of stories on that day.
The man I adored and admired, my hero, was once a little boy with stories of his own.
Raw Beginnings
A blonde-haired four-year-old boy named Bob rides his scooter down the sidewalk, stopping to avoid the raised ruts. He squints to shield his sad blue eyes from the scorching sun, stopping to brush the thick shocks of hair from his forehead. Soon, he will be whisked off to a children’s home, along with his older brother, Dick and his older sisters, Ruth and Eleanor as their father works as a traveling salesman during the Depression. Their beloved mother, Edna Mae, is suddenly gone. Ruth recalled years later that Edna Mae suffered from blinding headaches until one day at the age of thirty-three, she died of a stroke, leaving Paul, her husband, to care for his four children. Bob, my father, was the youngest. Gathering them close in his magical sway, Paul reached out his loving arms and taught them to say,”All for one. One for all”, a refrain they would remember and live by their whole lives.
A strong, young father had vowed to protect them all from his deep pain and loss; a loss that sent waves into the next generation.
“I never understood how my buddies could be so rude to their mothers.” Dad would say,”Their mothers would bake cookies and greet them after school. I would have done anything to have my mother back.”
At the children’s home, he recalled cold, lumpy oatmeal and being bullied by the older kids. One day on the playground while playing baseball, some older kids surrounded him, taunting him about the knickers he was forced to wear. Dick, his designated protector, came to his rescue as he did many times before and after. The brothers shared a mutual respect and close relationship for their entire lives as did all the siblings.
And Dad could never eat oatmeal, often relaying his experience,
”Makes me gag and reminds me of the children’s home.”
Dad recalled his excitement the day his father brought him a box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day. He couldn’t wait to take it back to his room and savor the treats at his leisure. But the matron had other ideas. She felt it was only right that this treat be shared with all the children as others were not so lucky as to have a father to bring such a nice surprise. Excitement turned to disappointment as he watched his treasured box of chocolates get divvied up among the group. That does explain why he savored sweets in later years. In fact, one dared not get between him and his dessert, especially if it was homemade chocolate pie.
The children were released from the home one by one, starting with Dick. Soon my father was the only one in the home. He missed his siblings but looked forward to the day he would leave. He was twelve when he left and recalled a happy day filled with hugs when he arrived in their home in Schenectady, New York. Dick was six years older than Dad and had joined the Army. When he came home on leave, he and Dad played hours of tennis, getting up at dawn before the hot sun started beating down. Dad recalled that they would often wrestle. Dick would establish dominance, while grinding his fist into my Dad’s temple; brotherly love at its finest. He missed Dick’s playful banter and the trading of outrageous puns among the siblings.
Ruth, four years older, was the surrogate Mom, cooking, cleaning and doting over her mischievous brother while their father worked as a traveling salesman for a printing company to support them. Soon after Dad was discharged from the home, Paul moved them to Upper Darby, Philadelphia to find work. He would be out of town during the week and home on the weekends.
One Friday afternoon, Paul drove up with a strange woman.
“Meet your new mother.” He said as they walked in the side door.
Shock and disbelief registered in Dad’s twelve-year-old mind. Lydia was forty-years-old, a spinster by 1934 standards, when she married Paul. She didn’t understand the workings of a twelve-year-old boy on the edge of his coming of age. Her stoic German personality was in sharp contrast to a young man who was trying to make his way in a world of uncertainty. While he fought the bullies in the school yard, he balked at the stern limits set in his new household. He was a rebel in the making, sneaking off to smoke his first cigarettes behind the garage and developing an ever sharp edge to combat his fears and longings.
But his new stepmother was a wonderful baker and he loved her Apple Streusel.
For all her sternness, born out of her lack of mothering experience, she was a gentle lover of birds. Dad recalled his memories of their pet pigeon, Oscar, who would fly into Paul and Lydia’s bedroom and perch near Lydia’s head. When it was time to move back to Schenectady, New York, Oscar was placed in a wicker bird cage and set atop the children, suitcases and lampshades in the back seat of their 1930 Ford. Imagine their surprise when they found eggs in a nest. Oscar became Oscarina and soon after their arrival in their new home, she flew away. They later found out that Oscarina returned to Upper Darby, perched on Paul and Lydia’s bedroom window sill.
Dad was fourteen and full of himself when he moved back to New York. His edges kept sharpening as he found himself on new ground once again. I look at the picture of my fourteen-year-old father, tall and handsome with a shock of light brown hair, reaching down to pet Spiffy, their beloved Huskie and wonder what he was thinking and feeling at that moment.
In two years, as a junior in high school, he would meet Kathryn DiCerbo, a sophomore, in the hallway at school. She would secretly decide on that day that he would become her husband. He didn’t know it then that she would become “the woman of his dreams” and his life would be forever changed; the deep longing in his heart would be filled with the love and laughter of a big Italian family who would embrace him with open hearts. He would be welcomed into the fold and honored like the Prodigal Son. Let the feast begin; a lost son has returned.
And the sharp edges would melt away… (to be continued)
How about you? Do you have stories of your loved ones that you want to preserve?
I’d love to hear from you. Please leave your comments below~
Announcement: Congratulations, Susan Rowland. You are the winner of Andrea Lewis’ memoir, Dramaville is Not a Place; It’s a State of Mind.
This week: I am also over at Belinda Nicoll’s My Rite of Passage blog with a guest post on her “What is the Gist of Your Story?” series with My Memoir-in-Progress.
Next week : Memoir Author and Creativity Coach, Belinda Nicoll will discuss “What Do Writers Read?” She will give away a copy of her memoir, Out of Sync to a random commenter.
Thank you for sharing some of your history. I have two uncles I want to write about even though I know nothing about them. Their names are Uncle Leander Jones and Uncle Abraham Lincoln Jones. How can I not write about two fellas with names like those?
I agree with you Nancy. No doubt Uncles Leander and Abraham have some fascinating tales for you to share! I love being able to keep my Dad’s spirit alive through his stories. Thanks so much for stopping by.
Kathy, what beautiful memories you’ve shared of your dad’s growing up period! Can hardly wait to read the “to be continued” part. Isn’t it sad how, back in those depression years, families were torn apart, kids were sent to homes and grew up with all kinds of heart-hurts, and yet they managed to survive. Perhaps it’s true that a little hardship serves to toughen us up. How blessed you are that your dad was able and willing to share these deep emotions with you!
Indeed, Debbie, our folks were from the Greatest Generation and learned to survive through many hardships. Lucky for us , we are the beneficiaries of all the lessons they learned the hard way. I feel so fortunate that I had the opportunity to prod Dad into telling some stories. Once he started, he seemed to enjoy the process. Writing about our loved ones really does help to keep their spirits alive. Thanks so much for stopping by.
How fitting that Grandpa Paul, lover of words, borrowed the Muskateer motto to protect his family. Mom used to tell that as a young man, he wasn’t quite certain he had it in him to be a father. Yet, “fight” he did with all he knew to encircle the family’s well being.
Don’t you suppose that he must be smiling down as his granddaugher writes tribute to her Dad, his son, as the circle ripples outward.
I never got to spend a lot of time with your Dad, but he always impressed me. He carried himself with an assured calm (not to mention that glint in his eye!) that seemed to belie any earlier sharp edges. To visit your parents’ home was to be invited to feel like the most special person.
I am happy that you and your Dad shared those personal storytelling moments.
Surely posterity is better for them too!
Dear Lisa, I heard how Grandpa Pal had “a way with words” my whole life and I treasure how he shared the stories of his time through”Paul’s Epistles.” I also was always amazed about how close our folks were throughout their entire lives. My Mom used to say, “I never heard them argue.” It seemed they had endured so many hardships in their young lives that they cherished every moment they had together. What a gift it was to witness “All for one ; One for all” Visualizing them all together again in that circle of love is very consoling. Thank you for sharing your beautiful thoughts. I feel so blessed that Dad and I shared these personal storytelling moments.
Kathy, what a heart-filling history you have shared about your loving Dad! All that generation had a hard time and that made them stronger. My dad fought against the British to free India, and he left the government job. In order to survive, he used to carry a bundle of Khaadi (Indian cloth material) on his head, walk from door to door under the sun all day to sell the locally made material. Later on, he became an auditor and whenever he would come home from his touring duty–just for a few days, he would teach me Maths, English and Sanskrit..and he was very proud of me to see the results.
I can’t wait to read the part 2 about your dad.
Smita, I love how you share your own “Dad” stories. How blessed we are to have experienced the love and guidance of strong fathers. Their spirits live on through us. Thanks so much for stopping by and sharing!
Smita – do you really believe that your people had to fight against mine to free India? My uncle was an army officer on the border and told me how we British were trying desperately to keep your ‘religions’ apart – at one time I was stationed in Africa and I was amazed at the hatreds particularly between Muslims and Sikhs (who provided our policemen). The only time we fought Indians in a true ‘war’ sense was during the period of the Greater Japanese Co-Prosperity Sphere when our Army Indians fought against those supporting Japan.
Kathy, It’s wonderful that you interviewed your father, mining his memories and his childhood, shortly before he died. That must have been a heartfelt experience for the two of you and from the sounds of it, he was more than ready to open up. I’d love for you to write about that day, those moments as the two of you sat down together and talked.
I remember the last conversation wth my father, as if it were yesterday. I can still see him sitting in his bathrobe and pajamas in the living room, the sunshine streaming through the bay window behind his head. He was dying of cancer. I think I may write about that last conversation in our journaling workshop on Saturday. Thank you for the jumpstart to memory.
Susan, You’ve given me my prompt for writing at the workshop! Thanks for sharing your story about your Dad. Those special moments in time are treasures.
It is wonderful that you got your father to talk about his life before he died. It is so important to get our ancestors stories while they are still able to tell them. My husband, our family history author, spent a lot of time interviewing our older relatives.
And I love the photos of your mother and father. You look very much like your beautiful mother.
Thank you, dear Madeline for your kind comments. I agree that it is so important to talk with our loved ones while they are still with us. I’m thrilled I had some special personal storytelling moments with my Dad. I’m honored to be told I look like my Mom. She is 90 and goes the fitness center for Zumba classes, volunteers at the food bank and visits the “elderly” in her neighborhood!
You’ve written a moving account of your father, Kathy, and even though I never met him, I think of him as a heroic man. He made the best of his heartbreaking situations and lived in honorable and loving ways. Look what a dear daughter he raised! The world needs more men like your father. The world needs to hear stories of your father. 🙂
P.S. My father-in-law, as a newborn, lost his mother, and a stern German nanny/housekeeper eventually became his new “mother.” Interesting coincidence.
Blessings to you, Kathy.
Linda
My Dear Linda, I’m thrilled you feel like you met my Dad. He was a prince and I feel so blessed. You are so right, the world does need more fathers like him. He shows up a lot in my memoir. He was always there for me throughout my life. Your story of your father-in-law is an interesting coincidence.
Thanks so much for stopping by
Blessings and hugs,
Kathy
I love stories about parents and grandparents.You are / were very fortunate to have been able to hear the stories from your dad’s past and document things. Pre-television, the story-telling skill was great. This is a challenge to those of us writing today…memoir or otherwise. I will never forget the last convo I had w my dad before he passed. He wasn’t telling old family stories at that point, but it was very enlightening. Paige
Hi Paige, It’s so nice to see you here. Thanks for stopping by and sharing your thoughts. I hope you write about your last convo with your Dad so as to preserve those precious moments. I appreciate your comments.
Kathy, what a poignant post about a remarkable man. He was certainly made of tough stuff to be able to endure all the hardship. I have often marveled at the resiliency of my own ancestors, who struggled, and I realize that they passed on to me their fighting spirit. I am sure we have both drawn strength through our forefathers to help us not only to survive, in the face of great loss and illness, but to thrive.
Thanks, Pat. I feel like I know your Dad,too, through your stories of his strength and guidance. We have both been blessed with role model Dads and it is a joy to share them through our writing. My heart breaks when I think of my Dad as a little guy longing for his mother but he lived his life with grace right up until the end and proclaimed all along what a good life he had, especially since he met the “woman of his dreams” 🙂
My father fought through the war (naval commander) and in 1951 retreated back to Australia with his new wife who was a rather fabulous WREN (as girl sailors were called in the UK then) and although I rambled the world at a tug master we rarely had much to say to one another, until he met my wife, and then he had her in stitches of laughter as well as, sometimes, tears. I wonder if this tale telling can only be between opposite sexes? I’m curious to see how your father’s life developed – an insight on real America I suppose.
Interesting thought,David. It seemed my Dad opened up in later years. How nice your Dad found a connection with your wife and gave her the gift of laughter- the best medicine. Thanks for stopping by and sharing your story.
Hi Kathy,
You are a great Memoir writer… !
Clara.
Aww,how sweet you are, Clara. You’ve made my day! Thank you so much for your kind words. I appreciate you stopping by.
I love hearing when people regard their parents as remarkable–a trait that often grows out of challenge and adversity. Kathy, thanks for sharing such treasured memories and surprises (Oscarina!:).
All our lives our parents told us stories of our ancestry and their trials and tribulations as immigrant farmers, but it’s only as of late that we’ve begun to record them. The two things that amaze me about them, and people such as your Dad and family, are their infinite resourcefulness and stick-to-itiveness.
I look forward to your continued story, Kathy.
Thanks, Terre. I love sharing how remarkable my Dad was and my Mom still is. The older I get, the more I appreciate them for their strength and resilience and for all the valuable lessons they passed down to their children. I appreciate you stopping by and sharing your thoughts as well as your ongoing support of my continued story. 🙂
How lucky you are to have spent time interviewing your dad, Kathy. My memoir began when I took a sabbatical from work and spent much of five months interviewing my mother and father about their lives. Those times and the stories I wrote as a result were a gift to them and an even bigger gift to me. Each time I talk do a book talk about my memoir, my parents are alive again. I expect your father viewed your time with him as the best gift he could ever have received.
Carol, what a wonderful gift you gave yourself, your parents and ultimately your readers by interviewing your parents for five months during your memoir sabbatical. Your efforts paid off as your memoir is filled with engaging details that bring your parents to life. I only had one session with my Dad but I treasure the memory and every time I write about him, he comes to life again. Thank you for stopping by and sharing your lovely thoughts.
Thanks for the stories about your father. My Dad wrote some of his own memories down several years before he died, and it is a blessing to have those as a permanent testimony from him. His most poignant memory is of his experience in France during WWII when he and some of his buddies were shelled by German troops. The halftrack beside which they were standing burst into flames and he was knocked to the ground. One of his friends pulled him away from the flames and saved his life. But another friend died in the flames. Dad always wondered why his life was spared while his friend’s was not.
Hopefully my own memoir(The Flying Farm Boy) will be a blessing to my children and grandchildren in years to come, also.
Thanks for sharing your father’s story, Dan. It’s amazing how these life events can have a long term impact on lives, as this one had on your father. Indeed, your memoir , The Flying Farmboy is a gift to your family as well as to your readers. I appreciate you stopping by and sharing.
Kathy I loved the your dad’s stories and the pictures. My mom used to tell us stories but dad didn’t, and how I wish he had!
Thanks,Louise. At least your Mom told some stories and I hope you’ve written them down to preserve them. Interviewing my Mom will be next. Thanks for stopping by!
“All for one. One for all.” What a wonderful saying for this tale of family resilience and survival in the midst of Depression.
And I loved the epigraph about the influence of fathers. I, too, give much of my memoir to my long-absent father, who died in 1980.
Lovely, Kathy. I can tell you are getting closer to the heart of your memoir when you write like this.
Dear Shirley, You always have such a nice way of encouraging me in my writing. You are right, Dad is at the heart of my memoir. Though the siblings suffered so much in their early years, they were very close and adored one another in their adult lives. And their children, my cousins, siblings and I were the beneficiaries of their resilience, lessons learned and their love. Thanks so much for stopping by and sharing.
I continue to be pleasantly surprised by the parallels in our stories. My dad was also sent away at a very young age, as was an older brother, when his mother “left home” suddenly. But my dad died when I was seven and one of my later-years projects has been to try and learn as much as possible about this man I never really knew. I feel a warm glow to know how you cherish the relationship you were privileged to have with your own father. And I too love the photos. Thank you.
Dear Janet, I realize how blessed I have been to have had my Dad for 64 years and my heart goes out to you knowing you lost your Dad at such a young age. I hope your research brings you peace and consolation. Thank you so much for stopping by and sharing your thoughts.
Kathy, what a remarkable, vivid picture of your father! He endured so much. I am so happy that he went on to have a fulfilling family life of his own to make up for the feelings of abandonment he must have harbored all his life. How smart of you to interview him. I wish I had interviewed my mother, father, and grandparents! It’s a rich history lost forever once they’re gone. Thank you for sharing this very personal and rich glimpse of who your dad was.
Libbye, I’m so glad you enjoyed my Dad’s stories. I feel so fortunate to have interviewed him. He told me on more than one occasion what a good life he had and attributed it to meeting “the woman of his dreams” Their’s was a sweet love story for sure. Thanks so much for stopping by and commenting 🙂