My Dad Was the Best. Hope Yours Was Too!

Father’s Day is fast approaching, an annual celebration of the paternal and the sad anniversary of my own father passing. While memories of him cross my mind several times a day, at this time of year I find myself digging in my mind for some forgotten memory, thinking perhaps I have some tucked away like a forgotten sweater in a cedar chest, an old favorite that simply has not seen the light of day for many years.

I have used my father as the topic of previous blogs (https://nerpribyl.wordpress.com/2014/06/16/dad-gone-a-quarter-century & https://nerpribyl.wordpress.com/2016/11/04/my-roots-lead-back-to-november-fifth) and his humor and life lessens dot the landscape of other musings in my posts as well. While my mind is percolating on him as a subject, I will share some more.

My dad (just like my best friend’s father, another amazing man) was an electrician by trade, as was my grandfather. Though he worked on many job sites through the years, some of the more memorable ones included the construction of the Thunderbird Hotel, The IDS Tower, The Registry Hotel and the story I’m about to embark on  from his work on the MSP Airport.

My dad started work early each morning, usually packing a lunch and carrying a thermos of coffee. As a union man he also had “coffee breaks” during the day and while working on the airport runways a silver truck would stop out to his work site that offered hot coffee, sandwiches and pastries for sale. I imagine his first break took place about 8 am. An affable man, my father built a rapport with the truck driver during his daily rounds. When dad became aware that his work at the airport was winding down and his company was preparing to assign him to a new job he hatched a plan.

When the silver truck headed out to my dad’s location, on what was scheduled to be his last day, there sat my dad at a card table (with two chairs) covered with a white table cloth, an electric frying pan had been used to prepare bacon and eggs, he pushed the button down on the toaster and invited the driver to join him for breakfast, right there on the airport runway. Juice was poured and there the two sat and enjoyed a final conversation, the table complete with a milk-glass vase with two red plastic roses (that had come free with a bottle of dish soap). It was a funny and kind gesture of his appreciation. “Memorable”, that is a word that aptly describes my father. I imagine the driver never forgot that special breakfast or the man who prepared it for him.

My dad loved animals and they loved him. Unfortunately, his allergies could make his being around them a less than pleasant experience for him. While growing up we had rabbits, I had a parakeet, we had tropical fish, my brother acquired the rat from his elementary classroom “Milk vs. Soda” nutrition lessen.  We also had the cutest dalmatian puppy who in reality was the worst dog I have ever known. At some point in the late ’70s (sometime after a divorce) my aunt was moving with her youngest from her house to an apartment, a pet-free destination. For many years the family had had a beautiful long haired calico cat that they all loved, named Mama. Despite his allergies (and the fact he was not that fond of cats) my dad was very fond of his high-school classmate and the mother of his nieces and nephews. That is how Mama came to live out her final years with my parents. Meanwhile my uncle moved on, got a new wife, got a new puppy and eventually got another divorce. The Whippet/Collie mix was not going to work with either of their new housing arrangements, so Tara came to live with my folks (and Mama) where she slept on the floor next to my father’s side of the bed. My father loved that dog but when my uncle retired, my dad insisted that Tara move with him to the cabin. My dad was accommodating, compassionate and fair. In both instances it was not that he “wanted” a new responsibility at his house but that he didn’t want to see someone he cared about suffer any more than they already were due to their present circumstances. He gracefully made these situations appear to be nothing and just used his ever-present handkerchief with greater frequency. I bet you’d already forgotten about his allergies, that’s exactly how he wanted it.

My dad wasn’t into gender stereotypes, he grocery shopped, did the laundry, gave his kids baths, read bedtime stories and even took on the role of “room mother” one year when I was in junior high. In many cases, if something needed to be done, he would just do it. He could work a full day, come home and make dinner and still remain engaged in what you were learning in school. When he went to bed we assumed he snored so loudly simply because he was tired, not because Sleep Apnea was just another medical malady stealing time from him. In other cases, if something needed to be done, it simply waited. Taxes were something he loathed doing and I think at some point he delayed filing for five years. Red Owl Grocery sacks filled with receipts and medical bills all waiting to be collated and submitted. He wasn’t avoiding paying taxes, he was delinquent in filing for money owed to him by the IRS. In retrospect I think he knew his time was precious and he would rather spend it occupied with people than with paper.

My dad was strict but you knew what was expected. I vividly remember arriving home five minutes late one summer evening and after listening to what my excuse was he simply said “I didn’t tell you that you couldn’t be early.” So I credit him with the fact that I am slightly early or prompt at nearly every appointment I have, as a general courtesy.

Growing up, my brothers and I didn’t get an allowance but Dad gave us our lunch money weekly and we were allowed to pack our own lunches and use the allotted money however we chose. That taught responsibility, decision making and flexibility. He also allowed me to pack a lunch for my brother and have him pay me a portion of his own lunch money.

My father had more interests than could be explored in a lifetime, he loved concepts, new ideas and possibilities. He was fascinated with black holes and could wrap his mind around things I never could. While his mind was sharp he was not impressed with phonies and would make time to chat with a loner or buy a guy a beer. I remember that he joked loudly to my mother as they were leaving one of her class reunions (perhaps her 20th) “Hurry Dorothy, we have to get the rental car back.” to mock some of the blowhards who had spent the evening trying to one-up each other.  He both literally and figuratively just didn’t have time for that.

Though this blog comes to an end and he is no longer among us, his story is far from over. I like to think that I have fostered in my own children some of his curiosity, his ability to learn something from everyone, his sense of fairness coupled with compassion and an ample dose of his humor. His greatest teachings were never in the form of lectures, they were in his actions, small gestures, mundane tasks that were eventually completed, behind the scenes maneuvers that brightened someones day, lightened someones load or simply made somebody laugh. His legacy lives on in that laughter.





The Simple Things That Make Christmas Your Own





A friend and neighbor posted on her Facebook page what she described as being a potentially unattractive ornament on her Christmas tree. She went on to explain that her father had been a photographer and that as children she and her siblings were permitted to paint spent flash bulbs and suspend them from ribbons on their tree. What might appear as an unattractive bauble to the uninformed was a beautiful tribute to her father and fond childhood memory.

We have a tradition in my family on Christmas morning which we have come to call “table gifts”. It began with candy canes and an age appropriate trinket on the Christmas morning breakfast table at my Grandpa Roses’ house. My grandfather has been gone for forty years and my own father for a quarter century and it is an honored tradition to this day at our Rose Family Christmas Breakfast, a 9:00 a.m. affair that rotates between my home and those of my two brothers. Each family contributes to what has become a small pile of useful gadgets, odd trinkets and inside jokes.

One year my brother gave us each an item retrieved from the remnants of our childhood home. Another year found one of my brothers reading from a small book about the terrifying lives of Gnomes. Eventually we began placing things at the places on the “children’s table” too, which ironically has more adults than minors at it now.

Despite forays after college to a few different states, my two brothers and I have been living in the same metropolitan area where we grew up for over the past twenty years. During one of our gatherings when we were reminiscing about childhood and my propensity to spill my milk at the dinner table on a regular basis and other mundane topics of our evening meals I mentioned that as a kid I had no idea what conduit was. If you are thinking “I have no idea what conduit is.” don’t feel embarrassed. My father was an electrician and conduit (pictured above) is the flexible tube that wires are drawn through. My father would sometimes refer to the size of a job he was on by the yardage of conduit he had “pulled” that day. I was familiar with conduit, because there was always some in the back of the family station wagon, I simply had no idea what it was called. I mentioned that by the time I was about seven it just seemed too embarrassing to ask “what exactly is conduit?” because I had been hearing about it since back in the day where I was seated in a high chair for my meals and not at my fathers immediate right where I sat for all of my post-high chair meals, even when my brothers were away at college and their chairs remained vacant for months.

We all had a good laugh the following Christmas where one of my table gifts was a small gauge piece of conduit, about the size of my pinky finger. I later took a paper clip, unbent it and wound it around the middle of it and bent it around a branch on my Christmas tree. It has been placed on my tree each year since and as it is put on I ask the question “Why do we put a piece of conduit on the Christmas tree?” and my children respond with “Because Grandpa Rose was an electrician.”

We also place a star of yellow tongue depressors (with just a smidge of glitter remaining) on the tree, for many years on the back with the comment “so people driving by can enjoy it”. The silly, the peculiar and to what some may appear to be the most unattractive ornaments are often the most special and memory evoking. Such a great reminder at Christmas that there is no reason to get stressed out over high cost presents and unrealistic expectations because years later it is never the things we thought were important that ultimately were important.

When it comes to the modern-day version of Christmas in the United States, so much of what makes the season beautiful is Christmas lights. None of that would be possible were it not for the noble profession of the electrician and that is one of many reasons that I proudly display conduit on our family tree!