My Dad actually passed in late January, 2013, but watching the Daily Show episode where Jon Stewart eulogized his dog, 3-legged pound pet, Dipper, his line about ‘In a world of good boys, he was the BEST Good Boy,’ I felt the jolt- there’s a legitimate analogy for Dad. Especially when Stewart admits, with a catch in tone that’s obvious, “I thought I’d get further than this…” well, its taken all day to get this keyboarded.

Let’s start with playing racquetball, leaving house by 8:30 to play at court in Watervliet Arsenal, where he worked. Those mornings, just us, fun hitting, playing four-five games in an hour, checking his skills while playing shots back more in middle so he could make returns, so easy to enjoy.

As a child in mid-Thirties, Dad had polio, when polio killed a LOT of kids/people, or put them in iron lungs. Despite a smaller left leg, he served in Navy (’51-’55), but was never much of an athlete. Terrific bonding over decent physical effort, then using the Nautilus equipment at the building, and breakfast out someplace.

It was very pleasing to know he practiced extra at lunches to develop a *nasty* Z-serve as a lefty, getting it to drop just before hitting 3rd wall ( service fault), way down and dirty to my backhand. We beat a couple other father-son teams, he made shots when necessary. Super memory.

Putting together pool tables for $50. Dad’s P/T job (early ’70s) at Wards got him the ‘Assemble it yourself, or let our experts do it!’ gig, three sections of 3/4″ slate pool tables. During OPEC embargo, with gasoline prices through the roof, lots of people bought the home entertainment deals. We had so much business, older brother (Mike) worked with Dad’s buddy Sel as a second crew.

$20 for helper share usually meant $40 day, frequently two Sunday too, up to $80 was a GOLD MINE, great work conditions.

Dad always taught us how to use tools, but seeing his extra effort in making sure the plaster of Paris seams were absolutely right, ball returns all rolled smoothly, the felt was securely glued in the pockets, pride in workmanship was a consistent example to follow.

He’d send me to get the owner, let him know we were done, guy had often bought for teens and didn’t play, would tell Dad to go ahead, Dad *always* said, “Glenn’s our shooter.” First shot on 8-foot red table, never busted rack of gleaming balls, dropping a couple more, telling Dad there must be something wrong with that pocket if I missed. (Insert Tim Allen grunts) Always lunch, satisfaction with Quality of Doing, cash in pocket. ‘Measure twice, cut once’ – I’m smiling about brother who blew Dad’s best practices axiom while doing crown molding in his front room.

A feeling of Dad’s “Thanks for taking care of my gal,” was a Goodness on my mind every time, and I *know* Dad would have wanted pretty stuff for Mom’s caretakers too, so I always had a good second vase for nurses station.

Flowers for Mom’s caretakers at Carmel Hills, for her birthday, Mothers Day, or Easter. Dad was a great arranger for church displays in NY and FL, centerpieces since forever. I’ve told three brothers they can fight it out for Dad’s woodworking crown, I’ll aspire to his creative side, because he really had artistic talents. I’ve done well putting displays-projects together, so Mom (who passed in Sept. ’23) had flowers, and I bought plenty of supplies, because I *know* Dad would have wanted them to have pretty stuff too, so always a good second vase for nurses station.

When I visited folks in Tampa end of one February, to be there for Mom’s birthday (3/1), Dad and I were watching the US-Canada gold medal Olympic hockey game. For the only time I EVER recall him asking, when Mom said its time for dinner, Dad asked, “Is there any reason we couldn’t eat in here?” You could tell from Mom’s, “Because the FOOD is in here” response that her long-time philosophy on sitting down to eat and TV hadn’t changed over years or in retirement.

He sure wasn’t dying on that hill, and *without rushing* we only missed a couple minutes of next period. Historically, if the phone rang during dinner, Dad always said, “Let it ring, everyone we know knows dinner is 5-5:30. If its important, they’ll call back.”

Golfing on the nine hole, par three course inside the Watervliet Arsenal walls where he worked, early version. Only needed three clubs and shared a putter, we bought a couple on our own, 7s and 9s, maybe a five. Dad wasn’t a run or shoot athlete like us as maybe 10-12 year old guys, but he knew how to instruct three of us on grip and swing. We sprayed shots all over, cheered for lucky hits in the air.

We’d also go down to the Arsenal early on some Saturdays to pick through the top quality lumber, what lengths of steel to be machined into artillery, cannon, and tank gunnery had arrived in, which was the Arsenal’s business. Pinch bars and hammering out nails, turning crates and pads into safe pieces for transport and home projects, a life-long skill. The beam that became center to back porch – where it rested on the dashboard of Ford station wagon and red flag was hung a good three feet out rear window – is legendary. As a Hammer Guy, I’m a legend in my own mind.

That he signed consent form so I could play Pop Warner football was HUGE.

Coming down the driveway at 5:00

Dad came down the driveway within five minutes of 5:00 every day, a consistency I cherish above all else really. Its on first line of Thanks for Coming piece I produced and everyone got at folks 50th Anniversary in Tampa (2005). Whatever the score in basketball or street football game was, Dad was the ehhhh! buzzer. If you were behind, the game timing out could mean No Winner. Dad would give Mom a hug and kiss, then ‘Leave It to Beaver’ boys, wash up for dinner. Everyone talked around the table. The cook gets kissed.

He wasn’t sure how important whatever he might write in the leather journal I bought him could be, but on probably folks last trip through Europe, his super-positive sense of gratitude for the everyday events of life came through. There’s also a drawing of the red wagon Coca-Cola made for him! which he and a buddy loaded with ice and Cokes, servicing the Arsenal right across the street pretty well – kid was making $5/day during the Depression.

His sincere ‘…and that was great’ was as easily earned for meeting a young Belgian, who heard their English and talked with them, helped them about where and how to make sure about getting off at right station. Maybe just a lady whose pastries were excellent – because Dad had a sweet tooth – or when he and Mom visited an AFS exchange kids home in Switzerland, years after meeting as HS supporters in Schenectady, and were treated as close friends.

I’d never actually known it until a sister-in-law told me Dad really didn’t like vegetables (like beets), but he ate them because four boys needed a good example. Can I get an Amen for Dad’s on that?