Now that the holidays are approaching, the memories come
flooding back, and I go to a time almost 57 years ago, and of course, Dad.
It was 1956, and Mom was busy making her great turkey dinner
on a sunny Thanksgiving Day! We all had a chore or two to do, and in
anticipation of a great dinner, were busily doing them.
But oddly, something was amiss! Where was Dad? Dad would usually be in the kitchen watching as he perused through the newspaper or chatted with mom with his cup of coffee and a cigarette. It was Dad after-all: a fixture that seemed permanent. This was a day from his beloved Rollic, Inc. job where he usually was at this time of the day.
We lived in a small ranch house at the time. My Mother’s youngest sister was coming for the holiday, and as usual, the two families would spend the holiday together. But where was Dad? Dad would usually bark orders to us to set the day straight and have everything in place.
The table was being set, the turkey roasting away and Mom in her uniform of the day, an apron over her dress, quietly cooked the masterpiece, which now sat in the traditional roasting pot for turkeys on Thanksgiving Day. But where was Dad?
I got the gallon of home made wine out, Grandpa Ralph made it on occasion and was to be treated better than money, better than your most prized possession and placed it on the table, just like Dad wanted. We placed cloth napkins around the plates, but where was Dad?
Suddenly from out of the bedroom we could all hear: “Elizabeth!” It was Dad! Mom was not called Elizabeth: she was usually called Lena, even though her real name was Olympia. That was his pet name for mom, and to this day I can’t figure out why.
Mom went into the bedroom and spoke with Dad. Mom came out and called my aunt. Dad’s sister: Angie. Meanwhile we were called into the bedroom to say our last goodbyes to Dad. He was dying, and it was time to say: “Goodbye.”
Dad didn’t say much, just looked at us with a dogged face and cough. I was in tears, water was welling up in my eyes, and I couldn’t see a thing, let alone Dad. Suddenly there was a commotion at the door and my Aunt Angie appeared. She suggested, before we buried Dad, to call the doctor. Mom was strangely quiet all this time, like she knew something, but would go along with Dad.
I wondered: “Would God take Dad on Thanksgiving Day? With a turkey and Italian stuffing in the over? My God! The turkey wasn’t even cooked through yet!”
The doctor spoke to Mom on the phone, and after a brief conversation with Aunt Angie, my aunt went: “Ooh Fah! Tony, all you have is the flu! You men are such babies”
We all laughed at the sight of us all standing over Dad, wringing hands and all. Diner was saved!
But oddly, something was amiss! Where was Dad? Dad would usually be in the kitchen watching as he perused through the newspaper or chatted with mom with his cup of coffee and a cigarette. It was Dad after-all: a fixture that seemed permanent. This was a day from his beloved Rollic, Inc. job where he usually was at this time of the day.
We lived in a small ranch house at the time. My Mother’s youngest sister was coming for the holiday, and as usual, the two families would spend the holiday together. But where was Dad? Dad would usually bark orders to us to set the day straight and have everything in place.
The table was being set, the turkey roasting away and Mom in her uniform of the day, an apron over her dress, quietly cooked the masterpiece, which now sat in the traditional roasting pot for turkeys on Thanksgiving Day. But where was Dad?
I got the gallon of home made wine out, Grandpa Ralph made it on occasion and was to be treated better than money, better than your most prized possession and placed it on the table, just like Dad wanted. We placed cloth napkins around the plates, but where was Dad?
Suddenly from out of the bedroom we could all hear: “Elizabeth!” It was Dad! Mom was not called Elizabeth: she was usually called Lena, even though her real name was Olympia. That was his pet name for mom, and to this day I can’t figure out why.
Mom went into the bedroom and spoke with Dad. Mom came out and called my aunt. Dad’s sister: Angie. Meanwhile we were called into the bedroom to say our last goodbyes to Dad. He was dying, and it was time to say: “Goodbye.”
Dad didn’t say much, just looked at us with a dogged face and cough. I was in tears, water was welling up in my eyes, and I couldn’t see a thing, let alone Dad. Suddenly there was a commotion at the door and my Aunt Angie appeared. She suggested, before we buried Dad, to call the doctor. Mom was strangely quiet all this time, like she knew something, but would go along with Dad.
I wondered: “Would God take Dad on Thanksgiving Day? With a turkey and Italian stuffing in the over? My God! The turkey wasn’t even cooked through yet!”
The doctor spoke to Mom on the phone, and after a brief conversation with Aunt Angie, my aunt went: “Ooh Fah! Tony, all you have is the flu! You men are such babies”
We all laughed at the sight of us all standing over Dad, wringing hands and all. Diner was saved!
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