JOAN EVEN reminisces about the legacy she gained from her father’s attitude to life.
“Be a giver,” said dad as he gently patted my right shoulder and looked over at me with a great yearning to convince. How many times had my six siblings and I heard these words? And, yes he did follow his own instructions. When my Aunt Joan’s family needed a new car, he was more than happy to offer ours. After all, that was giving, wasn’t it? It was mom’s job to figure out the logistics of that gift!
Dad was raised Catholic, his mom was born in a small town in Italy called Campa Bassa, and his dad’s ancestors migrated to the USA from Ireland generations before, even before the Potato Famine of the 1840s. His folks eloped and were married in New York City, because in the twenties, the Italians were the newest immigrants, mistreated and not welcomed in an established Irish-Catholic household. My dad was the only boy amidst five sisters. He was his mom’s favorite, but never seemed able to please his father.
My dad’s favorite and only pastime, aside from parenting seven children and drinking, was reading, most often non-fiction books about philosophy, world leaders, Catholicism, poetry or history. He loved to tell us about Mother Theresa, the ultimate of all givers in his eyes. He was so excited when the shroud of Turin was found in Israel, a proof to him that Jesus did rise from the dead and thus, in his mind, gave credence to his Catholic beliefs.
My most treasured childhood moments relate to my dad. We would sometimes sit out on the front stoop of our house to look at the stars. There was never a lot of talking, just sitting there together with our attention on the sky. It was wonderful. For many years, dad and I would go to mass together at our church during the forty days before Easter. It is called Lent in the Catholic Church. It is a time during which Catholics are encouraged to give up something that they like (candy was always a popular one), or do something that would help them feel closer to God.
So, I would wake dad up, as per his request, at 7:25 a.m. He would usually fall back to sleep and I would go into his room a few times before he finally got up. My daughter asks me now, “Gees mom, why did you put up with that?” I don’t have an answer. Anyway, we would almost run to the Blessed Sacrament Church for the 7:45 a.m. mass. It would not be an exaggeration to say that we arrived late every day during that five-week period of Lent each year for about ten years of my life. Not only that, each day he would let all the other churchgoers know of his presence, unconsciously, by taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose very loudly. I would sit there beside him in the church pew, shrinking lower and lower in my seat.
He didn’t talk about Catholicism;
his idea about ‘giving’ pretty much
summed it up for dad,
along with his life’s purpose to be a good person.
Dad did not get bogged down in all the details of the Catholic Church. He went to mass every Sunday and went to confession, occasionally, or rarely, and raised us all in this religion. I think that his weekly church visit grounded him and connected him to this Higher Force in which he believed. He didn’t talk about Catholicism; his idea about ‘giving’ pretty much summed it up for dad, along with his life’s purpose to be a good person.
He was always judging himself. He never learned that self-love had to come first. His inner yearning was to be a good person and to see this growth within himself. He read and read in the quest to find the purpose of life. He worked for Timex Corporation, an international business, so he would always bring home colleagues, visiting from Scotland or Germany, to share a meal and some loving family time. When he hired someone from Korea, dad was calling realtors to help him find a home, oblivious to the racism that his Asian colleague would encounter.
Later, when I left home, I remember the long philosophical talks when dad came to visit. My husband was travelling overseas quite a bit then, and dad and I would stay up late talking. He was a seeker. He died in November 2004, one year before I started to meditate. Through the years, I have thought about how, if dad had survived, he would be sharing his spiritual journey with me. When I think of him I smile, and when I bike, I take my hands off the handlebars sometimes and sing a song that reminds me of him: ‘Those magnificent men in their flying machines’, and I can feel the joy emanating through me.
Article by JOAN EVEN
