This time of year always makes a person reflect on their past. From past childhood Christmases, where Santa brought you more than you asked for. From your first Christmas together married. From your first Christmas with your own children. The list could go on. They are all great memories that will always be, and forever more will be, etched into your life’s story.
This time of year also takes our minds on a journey of what quality time you have spent doing something lasting in your life. “Where has this year gone?” is often said between adults. I think of the past year, and all of its happenings, and they all seem like they happened just yesterday.
Because of my hospital visits this year, I have often found myself drifting back to thinking about my father. How much more quality time could I have spent with him before he left us? Did he know how much of a hero he was to me? Did he know how much of an influence he had on my life?
The strongest memories of my dad start off during my little league days. When I started to pitch, which I was never great at, my father constructed my very own pitchers mound in our back yard. Each night after dinner, we would go out with a bowling ball bag full of baseballs, and I would pitch. I remember throwing till my arm could not take it any more. Ball after ball, in the strike zone or not, he was giving pointers on how to change my delivery and stance. Did I realize then what he was doing for me? Did I realize this special moment together? I would have to think no. What was going through my mind at that time was that my arm was ready to fall off, and I would much rather be running through the woods, or terrorizing my sisters.
As soon as that bag of balls was empty, we would jump into the 84’ Trans Am we had, and we would head off to the South Park batting cages. It gave my arm a rest on the 40-minute drive there. (I was also allowed to shoot spitballs out the t-tops in the car. Sorry if you were behind us!) When we got there, he would start me through the cycle of slow, fast, medium, fast, slow…and so on. We would finally leave the batting cages when I couldn’t pick the bat up anymore, or the mosquitoes got too bad. Five days a week we would do this routine of pitching, and batting. Do you think I thought about the time he gave up for me? No I didn’t then. But I do remember all of the great times I had with him driving to and from the cages, with ZZ Top blaring out of the speakers, and him blowing the horn at all the girls. He would always tell me he was blowing the horn for me! (Yeah right!)
The next large chunks of memories are working on the 1965 Pontiac Catalina. I was turning 16, wanted a hot rod, and he was more than willing to help out. My grandmother had originally purchased the Catalina in 1965, in Belle Vernon, Pennsylvania. It had sat in our garage for years. The car was a purplish, Easter egg color, which soon turned to a fire engine red. Since I was not in baseball anymore, yes my arm finally gave out because of a nasty break, this was our after dinner activity. Eat, change our clothes, put on the oldies station in the garage, call some friends over, and work. He would show my friends and myself what needed done, and we would get started on it. Usually he would have to finish what he showed us because we had no idea what we were doing, but he didn’t complain. Through his humming, whistling, singing, and making fun of my friends, this was probably the most exciting time in my young adult life.
The day we finished the car, was probably the last day I worked with him in the garage. After that, it was “I’m going to pick up my friends, and we are going to go riding around!” I think that he only got to drive the Catalina once or twice. I look back now, and I know that he was just itching to lay down some rubber, or go screaming down Interstate 70.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of memories that I have of my father besides these three large chunks. I have countless material from my dad for future blogs. It is just all this time, he was starting to get sick. I really didn’t notice it at first, and just thought, “He’s my dad, he’s immortal!” But, I was sadly wrong.
The last big block of memories is from the 1969 Camaro. It was my dream car! We both wanted another project to work on, and wanted to have another car so that we could park the Catalina, so the miles wouldn’t rack up, and he would have something to drive. Well, the Camaro lasted for about 9 months. I was on my way home from school, showing off for some friends who were driving behind me, slammed down the gas, fish-tailed the back end, and went right through the guard rails. When my dad came home from work, he was not upset surprisingly. He simply said it now gave us the opportunity to make it into the proper hot rod it should be.
The Camaro went into the garage, my dad’s health went downhill, and I was off with my friends. I remember him coming home from work, eating, changing his clothes, putting on the oldies in the garage, and going out to work. I was off who knows where, doing who knows what with my friends. I still remember walking by the garage door, on my way to take out the Catalina one night, seeing him sitting on top of the Camaro, getting read to mig-weld in the new floor pans. “Hey there, wanna help out tonight?” he asked. I don’t remember what I said, but I don’t remember staying either.
Those mig-welds on the floor would be the last time he would work on the Camaro. One chain of events led to another, and the next thing I knew, dad was in the hospital, the same one that I visit now for my tumor. He was actually allowed to come home for one weekend, before an upcoming major surgery. Did I stay at home, and sit and talk? Did I say lets go catch some baseball? Did I ask him if he wanted to go blow the horn in the Catalina and some young girls? No, I simply asked him for some money to go out with my friends. Sometimes, when you are young, you do some really stupid things!
At this time of year, I really miss my dad. I picture him sitting on the couch, telling me to be careful, and not do anything stupid on that last weekend. I hear him singing the bass parts to all the oldies that came on the radio in the garage. I picture the big grin on his face as I pitched three consecutive pitches in the strike zone at our backyard pitcher’s mound. And I picture the last time I saw him, sitting in his hospital bed, not being able to talk to me, but reaching his hand out to take mine.
I received the call at home back in 1991, letting our family know that my father had passed away. Being a senior in high school, and having to tell your mother and relatives that her husband, and friend was dead, was more than I can handle. Even though that was 17 years ago, the pain of that call still stings me to the core.
So, why write this, during this time of year? Just in the hope that one person reading this will realize the precious time that we have with our loved ones, and to not take any of this time for granted. We have a new year starting soon, and to make this next year, a year of memories for your loved ones. To be thankful this Christmas for the gift of life, and to not take any day for granted.
Even though I don’t have either of the cars, and someone new now owns the pitcher’s mound, I still have the memories, which I took for granted then, but will forever cherish in my heart.
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