My father didn’t change diapers. He didn’t carry me in a backpack when I was an infant, and he didn’t express his emotions. He was a typical 1950s dad. But my father was good at many things.
He was good at telling stories. Dad told of scary, exciting and crazy adventures. He imitated bulls by stamping his feet, snorting and charging. He mimicked monkeys in high-pitched tones. My sister, brother and I constantly begged him to tell stories.
He was also good at not waiting in traffic. Every Sunday morning, our family piled in the car and belatedly tried to get to church on time. Frequently, the guardrails at the Hiawatha Avenue train crossing slammed down just as we approached. Did he wait in line with other traffic? No. My dad never hesitated. He pulled a U-turn, backtracked to Lake Street, and barreled down Cedar Avenue on an alternate route. Although Mom scolded him, (“Oh Albert, slow down…”) we children silently cheered on his heroic driving effort. When we returned to the other side of the railroad tracks, invariably the train and law-abiding drivers were long gone. Staying would have been quicker, but Dad didn’t care. He couldn’t sit and wait.
Dad was good at being a “character.” Everyone who knew him had at least one “Albert” story to tell. At six feet tall, with a booming voice, broad grin and a great sense of humor, he was my cousins’ favorite uncle. The neighborhood kids all waved from their bikes and joked with him; his co-workers loved to join him at Twins baseball games. There wasn’t anyone who didn’t like my dad, except maybe my high school boyfriends who seemed to regard him as overly protective. They called him “Big Al” behind his back but kept a respectful distance.
My dad was good at working hard. When a union strike took his job, he drove to the railroad yard in pre-dawn mornings and unloaded grain cars along with men half his age – so he could provide for his family.
Dad was good at giving rides. Other neighborhood fathers were too busy, but my dad was always ready to deliver or pick up children. He was the only father who worked the night shift yet willingly gave up sleep to drive us kids and our friends to the Highland Hills swimming pool during dog days when the Lake Nokomis beach was closed.
Dad was good at “fatherly pride.” Although he never spoke the words, we children knew we were the best in the world. My father’s beaming face told us so.
Although Dad held in emotions as was expected of his generation’s men, he knew when a fatherly talk was necessary. When I was 14, he gave me a speech on the merits of character versus beauty that I’ve never forgotten.
Dad died six years before Mom. After her death, during a period of great sadness, I dreamt I was lost in an unfamiliar city, confused and alone. Suddenly, Dad appeared and said, “Don’t worry, Joanie. I’ll help you find the way.”
I have never dreamed of him again. I don’t have to.
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