When I read about a new invention, a plastic ice tray that makes elongated ice cubes that fit nicely into a water bottle, all I could think was, “Dad would have loved this.”
Anything that sliced, diced or came with 12 extra components and included a free gift was simply irresistible for my Dad. And he could never just buy one item; he’d have to buy three more, one for me and for each of my two sisters. Ironically, although he never cooked actual meals, culinary accoutrements held a special appeal, as did the cookbooks, cooking magazines and cooking utensils that jammed every drawer in his kitchen.
As the oldest of eight children, the son of a Philly beat cop and a homemaker, my Dad never had much as a kid and, as an adult, seemed determined to compensate for that. It wasn’t the latest model car or fine clothes that he lusted after; it was just “stuff.”
After my Mom died, his buying habits intensified. If you mentioned that you liked a certain type of shampoo, he’d purchase a decade supply’s worth. If he saw an offer for knickknacks in three easy payments, he’d snatch up several to distribute to his “girls.” In Daddy Bones’ mind, there was no use enjoying a great find if he couldn’t share it with his children. He lived according to the old Irish saying, “May your giving hand never fail.”
Of course, my Dad’s generosity was not endless. When I told my parents that I was considering graduate school, my Dad, who had paid for my college tuition in full, boomed, “That’s terrific, honey, I sure hope you can find a way to finance it.”
The giving hand, apparently, had its limits.
But his giving heart knew no bounds.
If your tire went flat, if you received a letter from the IRS, if a blind date turned out to be a world-class schmuck, my Dad was there to help or sympathize or philosophize by saying, “If this is the worst thing that happens, you’ll be doing good.”
When my brother was diagnosed with AIDS in 1987, at a time when a frightened world shunned people with HIV, my Dad and Mom embraced their son and cared for him in their home until he died. Weeks after Tommy passed, when my parents were out to dinner with some friends, an acquaintance of the group made an AIDS joke. Everyone froze, but instead of causing a stir, my Dad just put his arm around the man, took him aside and quietly told him about his late son. Class act.
An accountant who looked like a leprechaun and a lover of good stories and long jokes, my Dad gradually turned more cantankerous as he aged. After he became frail and sickly, however, he still managed to maintain his fatherly stance. Whenever I’d prepare to depart after a visit to his nursing home, he’d take my hand, kiss it like a knight in the queen’s court, and advise me to get on my way. A gentleman to the end.
Dad is no longer here to purchase any must-have oblong ice cube trays, but like any good father, his legacy of love and unselfishness endures and I think of him often – especially around Father's Day and particularly when I hear those infamous words, “Only $19.99, but that’s not all!”