I have referred to "Padre" several times the past couple of weeks. Since this Sunday is when we Yanks celebrate Father's Day, seems appropriate to clarify that "Padre" was my father, rather than a priest or a ball player.
Had a nice chat with Kent last night about Padre. He has an undying affection for my father which has, happily, transferred to me. He talked about when he and Brother Dave were teenagers, dad would sneak them into a local jazz club. When the club would shut down around 2 am, dad would then take them to a sort of speak-easy on the south side. Kent remembered dad singing, but he doesn't recall that Padre played his guitar on any of these occasions.
Brother David's memory is that the piano player at that jazz club, Wally, would sometimes call dad up to sing. His signature tunes were "St. James' Infirmary" and "Blue Skies." Most of his life, dad had a nice tenor/baritone voice, which he used to good effect.
Padre was a man of honor; he placed great stock in honesty, and in keeping your word. He supported integration, and opposed the VietNam war (more so after Bro. Dave returned). I used to think he joined me in my teen-age rebellion, but Padre was always a bit of a rebel.
Did you know he belonged to a motorcycle club? He was quick to point out that it was nothing like the Hell's Angels, but still pretty cool.
Early on, he was essentially apprenticed to "Uncle Bud," who taught him watch repair. Back in the day, when clocks and watches ran with gears and springs, this was a good trade. He worked several places in this capacity; I believe Andy Anderson's may have been the last. He continued doing watch repair out of our basement, piece-meal, for some time.
As I have said in other entries, Padre and mother divorced in 1962. Padre fought to have custody of Bro. Dave and me, at a time when granting custody to the mother was essetially pro forma. His winning that fight almost certainly saved us from an uncertain life with our neurotically insecure, and abusive, mother. I never went hungy under his roof. My dreams and aspirations were supported. I never questioned that he loved me, even though I only have one clear memory of his saying the words.
In the late 50s or early 60s, he went to work for Western Electric, I think initially as an engineer. He eventually became a draftsman, and worked up to section head. In the mid-1970s, Western Electric hit some fiscal roadblocks and decided to lay off some of their employees. Dad was offered the choice of having his contract bought out, or being laid off. He chose the buy out.
He had worked there for over a decade, and I think he felt incredibly betrayed. At least, that's the emotion I remember. I was in my junior year of high school at the time. It seems his life went downhill from there. I have theories as to why, but they're just conjecture.
Have I told you the story of how I got my first guitar? Padre took me to see the movie "Woodstock", and I was blown away by Richie Havens. I had the house to myself quite a bit, and soon learned where dad kept his guitar. Being a typical teenager, I thought I had a perfect right to play it. Well, it didn't take Padre long to figure out what was happening, and he wasn't pleased by finding his guitar out of tune (the movie made clear that Havens was not using standard tunings).
So, we went to Driver Music, and he bought me a cheap Silvertone. He got a couple of "teach-yourself" books filled with traditional folk songs, gave them to me, and said "Knock yourself out." Although Padre never sat down and showed me how he played guitar, I think I picked up a lot just by osmosis.
They say a highest complement a son can pay his father is wanting to follow in his footsteps. Well, I hope I have his strength of character, his compassion, and integrity. I do have the melancholy which I believe was his undoing. But I don't have to walk that part of the path. That may have been his last gift to me: a cautionary tale of what could happen if I allow melancholy too much power in my life.
Although my father still rides beside me in many ways, I miss him.
I love you, Padre.
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