My Dad is an amazing guy. A mathematical genius, smartest man in the world with round ears that believed in lucky pennies, Santa Claus and angels.
He had the most generous heart of anyone I've ever met and never once did he pass judgment on anyone. He loved the little things, like driving around in the rain trying to get lost, knocking over all the orange cones in the Disneyland Parking Lot & organizing pie fights for us when we were kids -- or rather having my mom organize it.
He found the bright side of everything - even in me. As most of you know, I wasn't always a delightful child but my Dad always saw the good in me & was always there when I needed him. Belly laughing like crazy when the accelerator spring of my VW convertible popped off & I couldn't get my car to stop. Flying up Forest Hill Road almost to Poplar and I finally got the bright idea to turn the car off. I called him from the gas station across the street from the bait shop and he was there in a heartbeat, popped open the hood of my car (in the back) and saw the spring dangling. Then came the big joyous belly laugh -- the kind that makes you wet your pants, cry & leaves your stomach sore for days.
Going to church was way more fun when he was there. Paper Balloons & Airplanes are best made out of church bulletins and the limits are endless on what you can do with Palms on Palm Sunday. But I know he was always listening, just multi-tasking because his faith was deep & true. I am certain he was greeted into heaven by God himself and is already in discussions about the automatic communion machine invention.
I feel lucky & blessed that I got to have this guy for my Dad. I know we will all miss him more than anything. His amazing spirit has touched all of us here so let's keep it going.
I implore all of you to keep picking up lucky pennies, keep telling jokes and playing poker, keep travelling the world visiting your grandchildren and loved ones, keep having GNO meetings, keep making chicken soup for anyone who needs it, stay on top of major league baseball, wear red high top tennis shoes if you feel like it. Always believe in yourself and refuse to believe that anything is impossible.
Thank you all for loving him, for being here today and for being his friend
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
A True Hero
It's been a very hard thing for me to pick one interesting story or admirable quality about my dad to talk about today. I often say that everywhere he ever went, he left with a new friend and a great story.
But one day in particular has stuck in my mind the last few weeks. I remember in around 1990 or 1991 when I lived in Colorado, he used to arrange these complete boondoggle business trips to Los Angeles, where my sister Cindy lived. He would go out to visit her, and several times I flew out to meet him and stay at his favorite hotel with him, the beautiful Sea Sprite Motel - where a room on the beach was $50 and the roaches came free of charge. We were taking a walk on the beach one morning, talking about his childhood on Waverly Street. He was born into the depression. He didn't have a TV, refrigerator, air conditioning, heat, or even a bathtub. They would go down to the bathhouse with a nickel once a week to use a towel and a bar of soap. He often told us how he would have to sift through ashes to find unburned coal that his family could reuse. They played stickball in the street with kids with names like "Santanangelo Giambambasio," "The Bagal," and others I can't even say here.
But when I asked him what the biggest difference was between those days and the days that I grew up, I was surprised by his answer. He told me the biggest difference was heroes. When he was a kid, he had heroes. Guys like Harry Truman, who he thought was the best President ever. Guys like Joe Dimaggio, who he thought was the best centerfielder of all time. Then Joe D. retired and along came Mickey Mantle, who could do everything Joe could do *and* was a switch hitter. And he said heroes is something that my generation lacked.
Well, I'm here to tell you my dad was wrong. Because I *did* have one - and still do, and always will. And he lived up to the title every minute of every day.
But what made him a hero? Was it the fact that he was good at his job and had a great career? That he made money? Had houses and cars, traveled the world? No, none of that. What makes him a hero to me is that he didn't care about any of it - the only thing he cared about was taking care of his family and friends, and having a good time doing it. Within 10 minutes of meeting someone, he could tell you 5 things he liked about him. He was never afraid to say what he thought to anyone. And that no matter where he was, he was *always* helping somebody, and doing it with a smile on his face. Nothing ever got him down. He found something positive to say about everything and everybody, all the time. Even just days before he passed, while stuck in the hospital knowing full well that he had very little time left, he said that he felt like Lou Gehrig - that he was the luckiest man on the face of the earth. That kind of courage can only come from a hero. And THAT'S what my dad was.
But one day in particular has stuck in my mind the last few weeks. I remember in around 1990 or 1991 when I lived in Colorado, he used to arrange these complete boondoggle business trips to Los Angeles, where my sister Cindy lived. He would go out to visit her, and several times I flew out to meet him and stay at his favorite hotel with him, the beautiful Sea Sprite Motel - where a room on the beach was $50 and the roaches came free of charge. We were taking a walk on the beach one morning, talking about his childhood on Waverly Street. He was born into the depression. He didn't have a TV, refrigerator, air conditioning, heat, or even a bathtub. They would go down to the bathhouse with a nickel once a week to use a towel and a bar of soap. He often told us how he would have to sift through ashes to find unburned coal that his family could reuse. They played stickball in the street with kids with names like "Santanangelo Giambambasio," "The Bagal," and others I can't even say here.
But when I asked him what the biggest difference was between those days and the days that I grew up, I was surprised by his answer. He told me the biggest difference was heroes. When he was a kid, he had heroes. Guys like Harry Truman, who he thought was the best President ever. Guys like Joe Dimaggio, who he thought was the best centerfielder of all time. Then Joe D. retired and along came Mickey Mantle, who could do everything Joe could do *and* was a switch hitter. And he said heroes is something that my generation lacked.
Well, I'm here to tell you my dad was wrong. Because I *did* have one - and still do, and always will. And he lived up to the title every minute of every day.
But what made him a hero? Was it the fact that he was good at his job and had a great career? That he made money? Had houses and cars, traveled the world? No, none of that. What makes him a hero to me is that he didn't care about any of it - the only thing he cared about was taking care of his family and friends, and having a good time doing it. Within 10 minutes of meeting someone, he could tell you 5 things he liked about him. He was never afraid to say what he thought to anyone. And that no matter where he was, he was *always* helping somebody, and doing it with a smile on his face. Nothing ever got him down. He found something positive to say about everything and everybody, all the time. Even just days before he passed, while stuck in the hospital knowing full well that he had very little time left, he said that he felt like Lou Gehrig - that he was the luckiest man on the face of the earth. That kind of courage can only come from a hero. And THAT'S what my dad was.
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