Happy Father's Day

The earliest memory I have of my dad and me was when I was about 4 years old. He had a collection of Lionel trains that he used to to display at Christmas. The display was enormous, set up on a table about the size of a ping pong table in our living room. The collection of trains included an entire village of houses, a church, shops, and street lamps with actual lights. I remember the afternoon he took me to the woods near my grandparents farm, where we went in search of very small evergreen trees we could use in the train village display. Our family Christmas tree was the centerpiece of the village, sitting atop the table. We needed miniature trees to make the village more life-like. Roy Reffuge never does anything half way, hence his trip to the woods with a 4 year old to collect miniature trees. Dad's trains are something of a legend in our family, at least to me. For years and years I remember begging him "please set up the trains." A year or so ago he mentioned he was going to take his trains to an auction house, as he's too old to fool with them anymore.  I have the trains now and plan to display them during the 2013 holiday season.

Another early memory is Dad taking me to get a new bike. A white banana seat bike. Before that I had my cousin's hand-me-down two wheeler which looked something like the bike the old lady rode in the Wizard of Oz when she stole Toto. I'll  never forget that Saturday afternoon trip to the bike shop.

I'll always associate the TV show Mr. Rogers and Lima beans with my dad. Dad was a DuPonter, and when I was a child he got home from work around 4:00 (it never occurred to me when I was a kid how early he must have began work to have been home so early) so we would have dinner early. He could  get me to finish my dinner and clear my plate because the favorite part of my day - as he well knew - was watching Mr. Rogers at 5:00. Until the time my mom served Lima beans. This is my first memory of discipline.  I did not want to eat those Lima beans; my dad said I had to finish the beans. And so it went. First he said if I didn't finish the beans, no Mr. Rogers.  5:00 came and went. For my stubbornness he said I had to eat the entire bowl of beans on the table. The clock ticked, the beans grew cold. Next, he said whatever I didn't finish I would have to eat for breakfast the next morning. I don't remember whatever happened to the Lima beans but I have never had another Lima bean my entire life.

When I was 6 years old I was ill and in the hospital for about 4 weeks. My parents would come visit me every night. One night a week only one of them would visit, so the other could have a free night to bowl in their league. On the night my dad would visit alone he always brought me a black and white milkshake. That hospital stay was miserable for a 6 year old. It was not a children's hospital like we have today; it was metal bed in a dreary, depressing ward. And I was not allowed out of bed for anything for the entire 4 weeks. That milkshake was the highlight of my week.  Today whenever I drink a milkshake I don't think of that hospital; I have a good memory of my dad, of how happy he made me when he brought me those milkshakes.

My parents divorced when I was 13.  In my mind's eye I can see my Dad standing at the door to the bedroom my sister and I shared, trying to explain what was happening to our lives. I don't think he understood it himself. In the mid-70's divorce was still a fairly new concept in our middle class world. I can't remember his words that night, but I shall always remember the trembling in his voice and the tears in his eyes. It was then I truly learned and understood the meaning of a parent's love for his children, and appreciated the pain of an adult.

During my teen years I wasn't exceptionally close to my dad. I saw him regularly, but sharing intimate thoughts, fears, dreams....well, I just didn't. I wasn't sharing things with my mom either.  I'm not quite sure why it was this way. Because of me, because of them?  I don't know, and don't spend any time analyzing this.

Today I appreciate every conversation and visit I have with dad, although unfortunately, there are never enough of either. I love to hear stories about his childhood, about his parents and grandparents. About what South Jersey used to look like. How he landed his job at DuPont. About the bar he and my stepmother used to go to for after work happy hour. The farm work he did as a young boy. The trips he would make to the Philadelphia farmers market with the Jersey tomatoes.  

Dad is PopPop to 6.  He did a fair amount of babysitting when a couple were young, and is a regular spectator at sports games. He could always quiet a crying baby. The kids know they can count on PopPop to love and listen unconditionally.

Memories of my dad run through my mind like the slides of a View Master. I see him sitting in "his chair" with his pipe (the chair that I sat in once with a comb sticking out of my back pocket and ripped the leather). I remember him playing the game "Think-a-Color" with me and my sister Kathy.  And "who can be quiet the longest." (Yes, I usually lost!) Or the time he let me drive the riding lawn mower - one and done! When after relentless begging, we kids convinced him to buy the neighbor's pool and move it to our backyard. The summer he grew popcorn in his garden. How he would paint the garage floor with a shiny shellac which was perfect for our neighborhood jacks tournaments (he still paints his garage floor this way.)  I see him pitching horseshoes by the Swedesboro lake, in his backyard with his neighbor, and in Kathy's backyard with his grown grandsons. Him trying to tell me a joke as he was about to walk me down the aisle the first time, and I just cried and cried. How happy we both were we were able to do it again years later, and got it right the second time (in more ways than one for me!)  The annual Reffuge picnics in his backyard, which he always hosted when I came home for my annual summer visit. Or him sitting quietly content in his "heater room" playing solitaire.  A beautiful slide show in my mind.

I love you Dad.  Happy Father's Day.