Father’s Day without the Smith family leader packs a new meaning this year.
First year without family leader will be different
My dad wasn’t a deer hunter, but he took me. When I told him chinook salmon would hit a chunk of Velveeta cheese soaked on the bottom of the Root River, he raided the family refrigerator and we went fishing. And though I’ve hunted ring-necked pheasants with some excellent wing-shots, he’s the only one I know who never missed a rooster.
Andrew John Smith never claimed to be an outdoorsman. The son of Greek immigrants, he grew up in Racine during the Great Depression. Hunting and fishing just weren’t part of his life.
But when it turned out this third son lived and breathed the stuff, he did what he could to help.
That, for me, made all the difference.
Along the way, we got lost, we froze, we got skunked. But we learned, too; sometimes we even brought home something for the table.
And more important than any heavy stringer, it strengthened our father-son bond.
I’ve been reflecting a lot recently on our time together.
My dad died April 23; he was 91. He’s survived by his wife of 66 years, Carolyn, their four kids, two daughtersin-law, one son-in-law, three grandchildren and many nieces and nephews.
This will be our first Father’s Day without him.
If you’ve lost your dad, you know what I’m going through. If you haven’t, give your dad a call today. Or if you’re able, a hug. And hold on tight.
With the sounds of my dad’s last word still echoing in my head, I’m left sifting through boxes of memories and life lessons.
And man, what an authentic American, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps life it was.
My dad was born to John and Jane Simopulos, who arrived in the United States through Ellis Island in a classic immigrant tale. With little more than the clothes on their backs, they settled in Racine, where after grandpa served in the U.S. Army in World War I, he started a shoe repair and hat cleaning business, and a family.
My dad was the youngest of seven children (one child died in infancy), all born at home.
After graduating in 1946 from Washington Park High School in Racine, dad enlisted in the U.S. Army and served in the 1st Calvary Division as part of the occupation forces in Japan.
He received an honorary discharge in 1949 and returned to Wisconsin where he used the G.I. Bill to study at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. Smart as a whip, he obtained bachelors degrees in business administration (1952) and pharmacy (1954).
While in Madison he worked a full-time job at Gardner Bakery at the same time he was a full-time student, waking up at 0dark-thirty to make bread before going to class. He’d grab a few hours sleep after school and then do it all over again.
Because, well, that’s how things were done if you wanted to succeed.
On Jan. 1, 1953, he met another UW pharmacy student, Carolyn Ziehm of Berlin, while attending the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, Calif., where the Badgers were playing USC.
The two were seated in adjacent rows on a student bus leaving the stadium after the game (UW lost 7-0 in its first-ever Rose Bowl). My mother overheard dad say he was a pharmacy student.
She was already a year into her pharmacy studies and knew every student in the program. My dad wasn’t one of them.
When she called him out on it, dad explained he was enrolled in pharmacy classes for the coming term but hadn’t yet taken a class.
They were both right, and proved right for each other.
The co-eds were married March 30, 1954.
After graduation they settled in Racine and dad partnered with his brother, Louis, to run the Canteen Pharmacy, a corner drug store complete with cosmetics, cards, candy, a U.S. Post Office substation and a magazine rack.
When the store opened and for many years thereafter, my dad was the only pharmacist and he worked 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. seven days a week. Because, well, yes.
We’d visit dad at the store on summer days when mom would deliver him lunch and on Sundays after church.
I can still see the 5-foot, 8-inch tall man behind the pharmacy counter, the crown of his head barely visible above rows of bottles, filling prescriptions while sharing the joke of the day and carrying on nonstop conversations with customers.
While we didn’t get an allowance, if we’d done our chores and stayed out of the penalty box, dad would sometimes buy us a candy bar or offer a magazine from the store.
I jumped at the chance to get an Outdoor Life, Sports Afield or Fishing Facts from the shelf.
Stories in those publications, as well as coverage in four daily newspapers delivered to our house, helped fuel my dreams of outdoor adventure.
Because that’s where I spent all my time.
Among my great good fortunes in life was the place my parents chose to build a house in Mount Pleasant. The former farm included fallow fields, which functioned as prairies for more than a decade of my youth, as well as a pond, a creek and a parcel of mature woods.
From the time I could toddle, I’d head out to wade in the creek, fish for bluegills and largemouth bass in the pond, shoot a bow and arrow or build a fort.
Dad, who grew up in the city, liked to say I was “raised by wolves.”
He was part of the pack, of course. After the Canteen became established, they started to close the store at 3 p.m. on Sundays.
I asked my dad if we could go on a fishing trip on some of those late afternoons.
How he found the energy to do it is only now becoming clear to me.
Dad bought a 5.5-horsepower Sears and Roebuck outboard; we’d put it in the trunk of the car and take it to southeastern Wisconsin lakes where we rented a row boat, clamped the motor on the back and headed out, mostly blindly.
Dad had never been to any of the lakes; I researched them and obtained the rudimentary contour maps available at the time.
After cutting my teeth on fishing and small game hunting, in 1975 I wanted to try deer hunting.
I convinced dad we should go to Jackson County, the perennial champion for Wisconsin deer harvests at the time. So what did he do? He took a couple days off work around Christmas, and, together with my older brother Mark, we hunted the late bow season.
We drove the family station wagon, a yellow Ford with wood-paneling, into snow-covered two-lane tracks in the Jackson County Forest near Pray.
After I spotted a well-used deer trail, we parked and walked off a ways, where, following instructions I’d read in articles, I made a ground blind from fallen limbs.
The three of us settled in and watched dawn advance across the forest. Mark and I held Bear Alaskan recurve bows with wooden arrows and broadheads with razor inserts.
As it grew light, dad opened his canvas pack and pulled out the previous day’s editions of the Milwaukee Journal, Milwaukee Sentinel and Wall Street Journal. The pages snapped like firecrackers in the freezing air.
He shook his head slightly as if to say “I didn’t think it would be that loud,” before he opened another section. Yes, it was dad’s first deer hunt. And the most important thing was he took me.
The next day we decided to try still hunting. I led the group as we slowly hiked through red pines and oaks on the undulating landscape.
After we wandered a mile or so we decided to turn back to the car. Somehow we got lost, even when we tried to follow our tracks in the snow.
After an hour of hopeful searching, we crested a hill and spied the vehicle in the distance. We were as happy to see that yellow wagon as a 12-point buck.
“I was about ready to ask you to rub sticks together and make us a fire,” my dad said, a smile creasing his face. If he had been concerned he didn’t show it. And he never chastised me for leading the group astray.
We didn’t get a shot at a deer that trip. But it added a brick to a growing family legacy.
Through it all, I knew – as did my siblings – dad had our backs. He and mom made sure we got an education and then they watched us fly into the world.
Working in the Wisconsin newspaper industry for the last 26 years, I’ve known at least two people – my parents – have read every word I’ve written.
My dad got pretty good with a computer in his retirement, and would often send me emails.
On March 14, 2019 he wrote: Good Morning, Good topic and ink plus position in today’s MJS. One with your experience and history with the life that goes on under the surface of our waters plus in the woods and above needs a voice. Stick your neck out, we look for opinions. Good print. LOVE, Pa.
We also established a tradition of daily phone calls.
I’d call dad and usually open with “It’s your number 3...checking on you.” He’d respond with an incredulous laugh and say, “No, I’m checking on you.”
Into his 91st year dad maintained complete independence, including driving. His last hospitalization was in 2012 when he received a pacemaker in an overnight procedure.
But the last six months his health declined as hairy cell leukemia whittled away his strength and dementia began to affect his speech and memory.
Dad had made it clear he wanted to die in the home he built with mom in 1962.
In mid-April, in consultation with his oncologist, I entered dad in home hospice. Due to the pandemic, the care was provided exclusively by me, my sister CJ and our mom.
We were so thankful we had him at home, where we could be with him around the clock, hold his hand and tell him we loved him until his final breath. So many people around the world in recent months have been on the other side of glass, waving to their loved ones in hospitals and care facilities.
Two days before he died dad had a lucid moment. When I asked him if he was comfortable, he gave a clear, one-word reply: “Perfectly.”
That answer has given me and the rest of our family peace as we work to carry on. I know we honored his last request.
He is gone from this earth but he hasn’t left me. My life’s path will always bear his fingerprints.
I hope you, too, continue to feel your father’s wind beneath your wings today and each day hereafter.
Thanks dad, and godspeed.