If my father was still alive…
If my father was still alive ....
I would tell Daddy how proud I am of him.
He wasn’t just good to his family; Daddy was a hard-working immigrant with a big heart. He fixed shoes at no charge for poor people and charged extra to the rich people in Pottsville, Pennsylvania.
My father was very proud to be an American and we were not allowed to utter one peep against the president, no matter which party he was in. He especially loved FDR and his wife, Eleanor – that’s why my parents named me Eleanor, and I screwed that up by changing it to Ellen when I went to New York City as a single woman.
If Daddy were here, I’d remind him of stories from my childhood. Back in the olden days, spanking was part of parenting among our Czechoslovakian families. But I was a scrawny, skin-and-bones kid so when I behaved badly, Daddy would yell: “Go get the strap.”
I’d run, he’d run after me for a few yards, then he’d stop and I’d keep on running. He never caught me; I’m positive he didn’t want to.
I did not escape so easily in seventh grade though. One day Sister said, “Eleanor, stick out your hands,” and she cracked my knuckles with a wooden ruler after she caught me acting up in class to make the other students laugh.
I never told Daddy because it would have distressed him that the nun hit me. And I felt Sister was doing the right thing to discipline me. Probably. Maybe not.
Although I attended eight years of St. John the Baptist Roman Catholic School in Pottsville and had to attend Mass six days a week, if my sister, Helen, my brother, Joe, and I were too late for Sunday Mass at St. John’s, we went with Daddy to his Byzantine Catholic church in Minersville. That counted when the sisters asked why we weren’t at Sunday Mass. Mom was often sick so she seldom went with us.
We were always late for Daddy’s church. And the church was always crowded. The three of us would follow Daddy up the back stairs of the church to the choir loft. I hated that part. The steps were lined with men smelling of booze and garlic and we had to squeeze through them to get to the top.
From the stairs you couldn’t see the altar but no doubt the men felt they didn’t commit a mortal sin by missing Mass. By the time we got to the choir loft, the choir was already singing the Consecration part of the Mass. In Slovak, not English or Latin. Daddy would chime in and we’d stand there bored, wishing we had been even later.
If he were here, I’d tell Daddy how sorry I am for making his hair turn prematurely white when I was a teenager. But that’s another story.
Happy Father’s Day to every Daddy out there!