My Second Dad

My father died twenty four years ago. He was fifty nine, much too young. My son was born about two weeks before he died. Dad never got to meet him. He never got to see him and my daughter, the older of my two children, grow up to become the successful young man and woman that they are today. He would have been very proud of them.

Being short a Dad, I adopted my father-in-law, Bob. It was nice to have a father figure. I think Bob knew that I needed it. I became comfortable calling him “Dad,” and he accepted my calling him that. It was nice to be able to use that term after losing my dad.

When I first met Bob, I was very intimidated by him. It was a perfect relationship for him to have with a guy about to marry his eldest child and daughter. I knew I had my work cut out for me if I were to ever gain his respect.

Twenty eight years later, there is no doubt in my mind that we respected each other. He gave me a hard time for being a University of Georgia Bulldog fan, which is my alma mater, since he was always a Georgia Tech fan. He would rib me about many things and I knew that as long as he was doing that, I was in his good graces. That and the big hugs and kisses he would give me as he got older were comforting indications of his love and respect for me.

I lost Bob, Dad last week. I was thirty two when my father, Pedro died. I knew Bob for over twenty-eight years. If you subtract very early formative years that many of us cannot recall, I actually knew him as long as I did my real dad. He didn’t “raise” me, but I learned much from him as a young man raising my own family and his grandchildren. He really didn’t say much, but he communicated an awful lot. He wasn’t perfect, but he had admirable qualities. He was very intelligent and would often surprise me and his children by interjecting something into a conversation revealing extraordinary knowledge. He didn’t do that as a way of showing off. Bob would never do that. If he said something, it was usually very relevant or funny. My wife believes that he would have made a great physician. As my daughter was going through medical school on her way to becoming a physician’s assistant, the two of them would become involved in depth discussing different aspects of the human body.

He was an excellent craftsman. After retiring, he would create furniture with such attention to detail that he would drive for miles simply to get the perfect wood materials and accessories. He and his wife had a beach house and his beach vacations often consisted of much of the time repairing, rebuilding, replacing and occasionally fishing.

The youngest of fourteen children (that’s right, fourteen), Bob grew up on a potato farm in Long Island. His parents were immigrants from Poland. As a nine year old, he would drive the truck (standard shift) during the harvests. There would be blocks added to the pedals so that he could reach them and see out over the dashboard. He once told a story of his foot slipping off of the clutch, making the truck lurch forward emptying his siblings riding on the back and the harvested potatoes onto the field. It was on that farm and in those fields that he developed the strength he carried, both physically and mentally. As the youngest of so many children, he probably grew up observing and taking things in, never really having much of a chance to say a lot anyway. So he was the “strong, silent type.” Though when he did speak, his voice boomed from his barrel chest.

He was a center for Miami University’s (Ohio) football team. Typical of centers, he didn’t bring a lot of attention to himself, he just got things done. He was the honor graduate at Ft Benning’s Officer Candidate School. He never told anyone that. His son discovered that fact while going through some of his old papers.

He probably knew he was sick before he died. We realized that we needed to hospitalize him only after his wife told us that he couldn’t walk anymore. He was admitted on a Tuesday. A little over a week later, he was gone. We shall all miss him. His grandchildren will miss his humor; his children will miss his strength and affection. I shall miss my second Dad.