This Sunday we will all being celebrating Father’s Day. It’s a day with a long history that started in Catholic dominated Europe in the Middle Ages. It was originally celebrated on March 19th, St. Joseph’s Day in honor of the guy we have all been trying to live up to for two thousand years. It was brought to America by the Spanish and Portuguese. There were several failed attempts to make it a national holiday over the years. There was a bill first introduced in Congress in 1913 to make it a holiday that failed because of fear it would become too commercial. Why would they ever think that? Finally, in 1966, President Johnson issued a proclaimation honoring fathers on the third Sunday in June. In 1972, President Nixon signed a law making it a national holiday. Oh, and the whole commercial thing. One study shows only Christmas out sells gifts for Dad on Father’s Day. I guess that goes all the way back to St. Joseph.
Of course, Father’s Day celebrates all fathers, including grandfathers. Being a father was the tough duty. You were responsible for raising, caring for, educating, disciplining, and hoping your kids grew into good, decent people who would invite you over for Father’s Day when the time came. Being a grandfather, is the fun part. You get to spoil your grandchildren, act silly, and give them treats with very little responsibility. If they act badly, you can step back and let the parents do the dirty work. And, then step back in when the crying is over. We have four young granddaughters. Little girls were a whole new world for me, never having had a sister. They range in age from eight to four and they love us. Who else gives you personal drawings every time they see you, and always want to sleep over at your house? The oldest one is starting to catch on to my kidding with that face that says, “Oh, Pop!!” They are only innocent for so long.
I never knew my grandfathers. My father’s father was an Italian immigrant who delivered ice and ran a family grocery store. He and my grandmother raised five children. He was a tough disciplinarian, but fair. He loved baseball. He and my grandmother flew back to Italy when he was about 50 years old to see his ailing mother. His mother died while he was in the air. He had a history of heart attacks, and died suddenly days later in Italy. My grandmother was devastated. Within about a year of his death, I was born. I was her first grandchild and I was named after my grandfather. She always made me feel like the first among equals. I can remember her smile every time I saw her.
My mother’s father was an Irish immigrant. He dug streets, delivered beer for a brewery, and was a bartender. He can best be described as a thick Irishman with a drinking problem. When my mother said she was going to marry my father, an Italian, he refused to walk her down the aisle. She said she was going ahead anyway, and he backed down. He died when I was about five years old. I have no memory of him. My mother always told me he died of a heart attack. I found out in the last few years, he was not living with my grandmother when he died, and it was the drinking that killed him.
They were two very different characters. One good, and one bad. I would love to have one Father’s Day with them to take the measure of the man. As I have gotten older, I have more and more questions about their lives and the stories I have heard about them. I wonder what our relationship would have been? Would I have gone to ball games with my father’s father? How would I have reacted to my mother’s father’s drinking?
As men get older, they often deal with health problems. They looked back on their careers, and think about what they did right and what they regret. But there is nothing like hearing the squealing laughter of four little girls around the dinner table. I remember thinking when my first granddaughter was born that I want to be around to dance at her wedding. My grandfathers were men I never knew, and missed. I hope these four little girls have loving memories when I’m gone, and never forget what they meant to me.
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