Sharing love letters to fathers
Central Floridians pay tribute to their fathers: best friends; hard workers; heroes at war and at home; proponents of tough love; and those still sticking around to look after us.
My dad and best friend
I want to thank my dad, Paul Krist, for being my No. 1 fan both on the sideline of every lacrosse game I’ve played and in everything I do. My dad is the goofiest and strongest person I know and pushes me to be the best I can be at work, home and on the lacrosse field. He encourages me to never give up when the going gets tough, and that’s something that will lead me throughout life. Every trip to the beach, fishing adventure and cheering of Redskins and Capitals games means the world to me, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my summer break making more memories with him. I’m proud to call him both my dad and my best friend. Happy Father’s Day, buddy.
Sophie Rose Krist Longwood
97 and no regrets
My dad, Phil Lambson, is 97 years young. He survived the Depression, having grown up in a large family; bombing missions in World War II and Korea; a paralyzing stroke; colon cancer; and the funerals of two children, six siblings and so many friends and colleagues who have passed on before him.
He taught me that surviving is a state of mind. He also taught me that whether you walk and talk again is up to you. He taught me that you should have the ice cream because even when you’re full, it will just melt down into the cracks. He knows we are not here to be perfect, but to be authentic. He knows that forgiving yourself is as important as forgiving others, and he has no regrets.
He defines his wealth by relationships and tells his kids that we are his “earthly treasures.” My favorite quotes from him are “I was born with nothing, and I’ll die with most of it” and “I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.” He wants for nothing, only more time with us.
Sherry Lambson-Eisele Geneva
Real-life and comic-book hero
In 1941, I was 7 years old, and we lived in Hawaii near Pearl Harbor. On Dec. 7, my father, Robert J. Foley, was home between being transferred from the battleship Arizona to submarines. I noticed the enemy planes flying over the house, and the loud booming in the background. Just then, my father received an emergency call to report to the Navy base. My mother drove him, and I went along. When we got there, we saw destruction everywhere, including the sunken Arizona and the Oklahoma on its side.
After the war, he took me on a tour of the battleship Wisconsin, including the turret of a 16-inch gun.
During his Navy career, he was awarded the Navy Cross three times, and he received a Presidential Unit Citation; he retired as a rear admiral.
In 1946, I went to a drugstore to buy a comic book. Did I get a surprise! There on the rack was a “Real Life Comics” edition with a picture of my father on the cover. He was later on “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” radio and TV programs.
He set a tremendous example for all of us who followed him.
Robert H. Foley Belle Isle
A lifetime of hard work
My father led a hard life. His father left his young mom for greener pastures, and my father became the “man” of the family. He would jump freight trains to find work, and he’d labor until he was let go: “last hired, first fired.”
My dad, Maloey R. Jones, was a worker, at one time taking on the midnight shift in the subway, then during the day odd jobs around the neighborhood, and in the evening janitorial duties in the Mays Department store. He was a taciturn man who never complained, and he supported the other seven members of his family the way he had supported his mom and grandmother.
One night I lay in bed, a storm raging and cold outside, and my dad’s car started — time to work. I felt grateful to be warm in bed, because of his herculean efforts.
One day as a 32-year-old man, I called my sister; my niece told me she wasn’t home, but “Grandpa’s here.” I told her I didn’t want to speak to him. The next day he awoke and died, a few weeks shy of his 65th birthday.
When I heard, I cried like I’d never cried before, realizing I’d never get to tell him how much I appreciated that warm bed on a cold, rainy night.
Maloey Jones Orlando Sentinel Editorial Advisory Board member from Clermont
Soapy shaving cream
Bishop Fulton Sheen, the TV priest, said that “the best thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”
That was always so in our house, especially during the stressful days of the Depression.
When Dad did get work for the Pennsylvania Railroad, he didn’t bemoan the few work days but rejoiced in what he had. My favorite memory of my dad is hearing him making soapy shaving cream in a cup early in the morning.
He taught us by example on the work ethic. You were a great man, Pop.
Bill Summers Orlando
‘Held in high esteem’
My father, Jules Levenberg, was a sweet, kind man. He was one of nine children of immigrant parents from Poland.
Jules trained as an electrician and was the first licensed electrician in Elizabeth, N.J. His family of three girls was the joy of his life. He and my mother worked together to raise us. We were not rich, but we were never hungry, or cold, and we were well dressed.
The electrical inspector wrote a letter to the family upon my father’s death in January 1959:
“Many times during our short stay on this earth ... we pay respects to one who has died. You and your children have lost a wonderful husband and father. In your bereavement, there should be consolation in the fact that Jules was well thought of and held in high esteem. No man with whom I had dealings with in the electrical department was more courteous, obliging and cooperative than was Jules. This spirit was evidenced wherever Jules was found. I hope your memories will bring consolation to you and your daughters.”
This showed how many people felt about my father. He was an inspiration and example to me in how I should live my life. Thanks, Dad, for being a such a good role model.
Elaine Levenberg Pasternack Heathrow
Always our hero
Robert Howard Angel — father of six and a World War II, C-47 “Gooney Bird” troop carrier pilot. He’d reenact taking off toward the New Guinea mountains on a short runway, pulling back on the controls, barely getting the plane up in time, then veering off to pick up wounded soldiers behind enemy lines. He was in the moment, a sight to behold.
Dad contracted malaria in New Guinea at age 27. These last words he ever heard were from an Aussie doctor: “Bob, whatever you do, don’t pass out. I’m afraid we’ll lose you if you do.” Awakening from a four-day coma, he’d been 100 percent deafened by quinine. Unknown to doctors, large doses destroy the central auditory nerve.
After Dad’s death, my brother and I discovered numerous letters contesting endless cuts to his disability income. They claimed he hadn’t served in a combat zone, ergo, no combat pay for his disability. Then we found a 1944 newspaper article stating he’d been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. “Yes, awarded, but it was never sent,” Mom related.
A letter to Sen. Bill Nelson resulted in the Asiatic-Pacific Campaign, World War II Victory, Air, and Distinguished Flying Cross medals.
Can you hear us now, Dad? You were always our hero.
Susan E. Angel Orlando
Tough love and self-sufficiency
My father was not a generous man. I was one of five children, and once we graduated from high school, we were on our own. After my sophomore year in 1966, I flew from Iowa to Washington, D.C., to work in a settlement house, which included room and board. My pay was $25 every two weeks. Credit cards did not exist. My father gave me $10 before boarding the airplane. Two years later, he gave me a $500 check for my wedding — and gift. If I spent more, it was on me.
Even adjusting for inflation, both of those examples were just cheap. My father was not poor. He played golf weekly and went on a yearly 500-mile trip to Minnesota for deer hunting. Yet, I adored him. I loved his zest for life, his sly smile when he was about to tease, and the unconditional love that I felt from him. He believed in tough love and self-sufficiency. He had raised us that way, so it wasn’t a surprise. He was consistent.
He also believed in self-sufficiency for himself, and he was able to live on his own until his death at age 97.
R.I.P., Ron Gauper 1916-2013. Lynn VanHorne Longwood