Moments of Grace

The summer sun is high in the sky as heat bakes the earth. I run to match his stride pushing a small toy lawn mower. He is everything I wish to be. He is the center of my world. He is the only hero I have ever known. Heavy summer air suffocates every breath as I try to keep up. We stand alone in a large field of mown grass on a sweltering July day. A white handkerchief is tied around his head to capture the sweat as it rolls down his forehead while he pushes a lawn mower down a long slope. He stops and turns to watch me running behind him. Slowly he removes a second handkerchief from the pocket of his Bermuda shorts and with a loving smile ties the white cloth around my head in a symbol of manhood. It was the smallest of gestures but it remains one of the earliest of my memories of my father.

My father was a strict disciplinarian where his law was absolute and unyielding. His rules were clear and the line between right and wrong never varied in all the years I lived under his roof. I was taught to respect authority in every person I encountered. Although my father was an easy man to respect, he was a difficult man for a young child to understand. A simple stare from his penetrating blue eyes could send ice water coursing through your veins. His emotions were controlled when mad, as the fires of fury burned below the surface. Known by all the cousins as Mean Ole Uncle Joe, dad’s sister would bring the cousins by to be disciplined by dad when they misbehaved. It was always clear that I was the next in a long line of proud people and I needed to act in a manner which would respect family tradition.

When my real mother died during my early teen age years, I pulled away from my father into a protective cocoon. I decided to become a man in the only way I knew how, which was to challenge my father’s authority in every way. I delved into the dark side of existence getting involved with drugs as a way to prove my independence and stubbornness. Only now can I come to appreciate how difficult these years must have been to my father, who demanded only that you do the right thing.

I recall many a night sneaking out of the house during the week to hook up with my friends to do drugs and sleep with the neighborhood girls. My primary defense was staying out as late as possible knowing my father would arise at 5:00 am to go to work in New York City. Arriving home I would turn off the engine of grandmother’s 1964 Valiant convertible a full block before the house so that I could coast into the driveway without a sound. Blasted I would sneak into the house in absolute silence at 3:30 am taking my shoes off in the process. I knew where every squeaky floorboard in the house was located carefully missing each one as I crept toward my room. As I slowly worked my way past the living room the most horrifying moment of life was seeing the bright red glow of my father’s Pall Mall cigarette in total darkness as he inhaled deeply waiting for me to return. It’s a wonder that I never died from shear fright knowing that the wrath of righteousness and respect was about to exact a fearful price from my soul. As the great Chinese general Sun Tzu said in the Art of War “On desperate ground, I would proclaim to my soldiers the hopelessness of saving their lives”.

All my sisters lived through the same experience of trying to out last dad. In later years we would all laugh at my sister’s boyfriend that got caught by the red glow hiding in the bush next to the driveway. Dad emerged from the bush with his cigarette and a cocktail, ran up to the car and pulled the door open. “Did my daughter tell you when she was supposed to be home?” In paralyzed fear he murmured “Yes sir.” Dad went on “And what time did she tell you she was supposed to be home”. In barely a whisper he said “It was 11:00 o’clock sir.” In a voice that would stop a charging rhino dad would continue “You must certainly realize that it is 12:30 and it was your responsibility to get her home on time, regardless of what she may have told you.” Both my sisters lost many boyfriends as dad’s reputation grew around town. Boyfriends learned to drop my sisters off two blocks from the house and make them walk home fearful of a run in with dad.

During the rebellious years in high school dad got me a summer job with his office, hoping to provide me some direction and self esteem. He was an accountant with LaBranche Company a stock brokerage firm located on Wall Street in New York City. He had talked the partners into giving me a summer job as a runner. A runner would spend most of the day on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange next to the traders. Before the advent of computers and electronic trading, the traders would complete a series of trades and the ticket orders would be given to a runner to carry them up to the main office so they could be registered with the company. At the time I was so opposed to wearing a suit and spending every summer day traveling with dad to New York that I turned the job down and decide to dig ditches for a construction company that summer. What a move in retrospect. Little did I know that runners rose to become traders on the floor of the stock exchange and traders could make millions if they were exceptional. How different might my life have been if I had chosen to become a runner in mid-1970? In all probability I would have promoted to trader by the start of the 1980’s, an era of junk bonds and Ivan Boesky. Considered the wild west traders made multi-millions of dollars and retired by the age of thirty. My ignorance of youth was blind to opportunity.

Continuing to distance myself from my father through college, our relationship grew more adversarial. He never really changed his expectation or opinion, it was me attempting to demonstrate my manhood by ignoring every value I was taught. His letters chastised me for living in sin with my girlfriend. I was indignant that he would challenge how I lived under my own roof. As an act of defiance I decided to marry my girlfriend in a simple civil ceremony without giving my family sufficient time to travel to the Midwest to attend the wedding. It was a childish ploy designed to show who was in control of my life. To my great surprise my new wife was accepted by the family with open arms and was granted all the respect in her new position as daughter-in-law. At the time I never understood that my father’s values were so blind to emotion, what was right would always be right.

Living in the Midwest after college I was returning home on a frequency of about once every two years. As my father turned 50 I began to contemplate the mortality of both of us. Assuming he would live to the age of 70 at the current frequency of returning home I might only see my father another ten times. This realization gripped me like an icy hand and I decided that I needed to change. I had established a perplexing rule that I would only call my father after he had called me. My stupidity and immaturity was revealed. If I wanted to communicate with my father, I should call no matter who’s turn it was. This moment of clarify lifted a great burden from my shoulders changing the course of my life.

Business travel allowed me to visit home as frequently as four to six times a year. This constant contact was the foundation of a deep and meaningful relationship, not only with my father, but with my entire family. We became extremely bonded as a family, enjoying each others company so much that we would all vacation together. Dad bought a vacation home in Hilton Head, then sold it after ten years and bought another place in West Palm Beach just so we all had a place to gather besides the home in New Jersey. Rich full memories fill my heart reflecting on both places.

The family also began a yearly tradition of renting a large home on a different island in the Caribbean or somewhere on the shore just so that we could explore life together. These remain my most treasured memories of life, exploring new cultures and lands, watching my brother and sister’s children grow up. The shorts we wore for dinner in Bermuda, the mountain hike that almost killed my stepmother in Puerto Rico, the blazing heat of the Grand Caymans, the surf that beat us senseless in Barbados, the group cooking at the shore in Avalon, the amusement park rides in Wildwood, the golf course at Sea Isle, all are special places for me now.

Dad had one of the most incredible work ethics of anyone I ever knew. Returning home from the war in Korea as a young man, he worked full time during the day and put himself through college in the evening while raising a family. He would additionally take on tax return filings for all the neighbors and local small businesses for a few extra dollars to made ends meet. Between March and April 15th Dad would disappear behind a mountain of paper on the dining room table. All the kids knew to walk by the table with great care since he was worn and irritable during those long six weeks. Too much noise or commotion would bring a serious reprimand. Even as a small child I recall Dad huddled over a pile of tax forms cursing Uncle Sam with a glass of Dewars White Label on the rocks in one hand, a Pall Mall cigarette in the other and a big chief number two pencil being gnawed away between his teeth. I can still vividly see the large bulging callous on the inside joint of his middle finger of his right hand where that number two big chief pencil would rest.

Obtaining his certification as an accountant he began working on Wall Street in New York City. For thirty five years he arose at 5:00 am to travel to the city and would finally return to the house after 6:30 pm. During tax season he would not be expected home until after 10:30 pm and would work Saturdays in the city. I don’t ever recall seeing Dad home sick from work in 35 years, although it must have happened. The only break from the office was saved for his vacations with the family, which was the center of his life.

As my professional life began to grow I was compelled to prove myself to my father in the currency I thought he understood the most, hard work. It was my way of restoring all the years of pain and disappointment I delivered to his doorstep. Bound and determined I would invest as much if not more into my career, proving to my father that was worthy of being his son, that all his wisdom had found a place to grow and prosper, that I was in fact next in that long line of proud people. He delighted in my growing business acumen and authority. During my frequent trips home we would sit up until the early morning hours as I shared stories about my challenges and successes. His face would glow with pride at my increasing ability to master my professional domain. Most of the time I would do all of the bragging while he would listen and smile overflowing with contentment. It became a special private place for the two of us where time would stop. We would look at the clock and realize it was past 2:00 am knowing that he would be rising for work in a couple of hours and I would be catching a plane to another location.

Struggling for so many years, dad proved that the American dream did exist in work ethic of Horatio Alger. He illustrated how the down-and-out might be able to achieve the American dream of wealth and success through hard work, courage, determination, and concern for others. At the time of his retirement at the age of 65, my father had earned more than enough money to spend the rest of his life without a concern achieving his dream of financial independence for his entire family.

During his first year of retirement mom slipped and fell of an icy sidewalk, shattering her knee cap. A surgery and year long physical therapy postponed any thoughts of retirement travel for the two of them. Dad waited on mom providing him a challenging unfamiliar role as caregiver. Slowly she recovered as they resumed their active retirement plans. The first real trip the family planned after dad’s retirement was to Colonial Williamsburg in November 1995. We spent a glorious long weekend playing golf in the brisk fall air, touring the historical restoration and huddled together around a roaring fire sipping port. The highlight was a formal dinner at the renowned Inn at Williamsburg. It was a spectacular evening in the ceiling to floor glass loggia overlooking the golf course. The colonial furniture decorated with pewter mugs, white linen and candles only enhanced the favor of a truly exceptional meal. We all marveled that for each of us seated at the table there were three persons waiting on us. I could only imagine that it was like dining in the White House at a state dinner. Dad appeared thinner during that trip and when asked he joked than he was losing weight from waiting on mom so much.

Six weeks later I had an evening flight Charlotte for a huge business meeting the following day, getting ready to leave the hotel room to have dinner with the client, my cell phone ran. It was dad calling to tell me that the doctor had discovered a spot on his lung and it was cancer. He said not to worry the doctor will get a better look at it next week. In a situation where I was unable to change my schedule I had to keep up appearances and finish the business meeting. The next 24 hours was the most trying times of my life as I acted congenial and entertaining through dinner that evening and then for a full eight hours of meetings the next day while a raging ocean of pain tried to escape by ripping my flesh. I will never forget how credibly difficult those few hours were, never having a private moment to grieve. On the plane ride home I could no longer contain my emotions. Silently I acted as if I was asleep so the flight attendant wouldn’t bother me and with my hand firmly clapped on my jaw the tears flowed down my cheeks for the two hour flight home.

On November 22, 1996, less than nine months later, my father pasted away. I think I made four or five trips to visit him during those nine painful months to say goodbye. It is only by the grace of god that I decided to renew my relationship with my father and in doing so was rewarded with sixteen cherished wonderful years. I believe that people enter your life for a purpose and when that purpose is fulfilled they leave your life. It is your responsibility to understand what that purpose was and to carry the message forward. I will always be angry at the world, that after working so hard his entire life my father was never able to enjoy the fruits of his labor. How unfair and cruel it seems, so beyond the specter of reason that a person so filled with compassion and love after a lifetime of providing for his family, he is taken from us so abruptly. If I ever needed a reason to fill my soul with darkness and bitterness, to despise and hate life this would be the reason.

My last visit with my father he shared with me his only failure in life and pleaded for me not to follow his footsteps. He said you must not spend your life saving for the perfect time to live your life, that day may never come. You must take the time to experience life each and every moment. I see the same determination and driven in you as I had, please take the time to travel, to be with family, to enjoy the quiet moments, to find those moments of grace. Having said what needed to be said; he removed the ring from his finger and gave it to me. All my life I have admired that golden ring which contained his initials. My father and I have the same initials and he always said I would wear the ring when he was gone. The ring was given to my father by my grandmother when he was a teenager. The ring always represented for me, being the head of the clan in Scottish highland tradition. As a child, I always dreamed about the day when I would wear the ring of authority. It seems ironic now that when I glance at the ring which I now wear, I can wish of nothing other than being able to see him again wear his ring.

There was single promise I made to myself after my real mother’s death decades earlier, which was not to suppress my emotions, that pain and grieving was the path to healing. I vowed to relinquish all defensive mechanisms I had developed over a lifetime and allow myself to feel the depth of my emotions. Dad’s funeral was difficult for me. The realization that you are the eldest member of the clan can be debilitating. Why didn’t I listen to all the family stories better? Why didn’t I pay attention? Why didn’t I care more? The burden falls on me to carry the oral history and we are never prepared. I am saddened by how much history disappears never to be known again.

The most difficult time of the funeral was carrying the weight his casket as a pallbearer for the first time in my life while a lone bagpiper played Amazing Grace on a distance hill. The weight of grief for every moment lost, for every moment forgotten, for every moment stolen from me sat on my shoulders. From that day forward Amazing Grace has always brought tears to my eyes. I know with certainly that I will be laid to rest by the pipes playing Amazing Grace completing another circle in that long line of proud people. Like my father, on that day I will take with me all the stories, memories and dreams of my existence from the world.

There are moments of grace in everyone’s life where the inner workings of the heavens are revealed. It happens in silence when all becomes clear, where the future is explained, where death is only an extension of life. After dad’s funeral family and friends gathered at the house to comfort each other, to celebrate life of a great man. The house was filled with faces I had not seen in years, faces that were touched deeply by this single man. Discreetly I slid out the backdoor to stand on the deck by myself for a moment of reflection. Staring at the sky, it was covered with thin layer of clouds that obscured the stars and moon. The moon was apparent where silver light filtered through the soft white curtains draped over the heavens. As I watched, the clouds parted revealing the most perfect radiant silver full moon twice the size as I can ever remember seeing. The moonlight filtered through the trees and bathed me in a warm glow. It was so powerfully spiritual because the clouds parted in a circle only large enough to reveal the moon, while the rest of the sky remained shrouded in grief and sorrow. As I gazed at the moon a calmness and peacefulness embraced me, washing any fear of the future from my soul.

Immediately I went back into the house to get my mother. We walked together to the spot on the deck where the moonlight bathed both of us. As I pointed out what was so apparent I said “That’s dad telling us that everything will be fine, that he is watching over us.” It was mystical, standing alone in the chilled November air bathed in moonlight as we hugged, letting the tears of sorrow flow. Looking again to the sky to say goodbye the clouds closed over the window in the heavens and obscured the moon not to be seem again that evening. It was a moment of grace when it was clear that dad wanted me to take care of my mother. To her I represent the living spirit of my father. When I am near to her, she feels the presence of Joe and it makes both of us happy. There’s an old saying that the older you get the more you become your father. I can only wish that to be true. Over the subsequent years she has reminded me many times how much I remind her of dad, after which I smile and chuckle exactly as dad would, which makes us both laugh.

Each day as I move forward in the hectic world, I savior the moments of grace where ever they are hidden. Moments of grace can be found in the light touching the ground, the rain on a hot summer day, the smile of a stranger in a crowd, the soft fog at dawn, but most of all in the clouds in the sky. If you look at the sky carefully there is always one place where there is stunning beauty, where the light is soft, where the colors are vibrant, where the door to heaven is open. Whenever I want to see dad I look for this spot of exceptional beauty, he’s always there in every sky, comforting me. This is my personal ritual each day looking to sky, finding the solace in knowing that I am in fact the next in that long line of proud people.