Steaks on the Grill

My thoughts were of my dad this past father's day. I didn't call. I can't really talk to him since his dementia has worsened. When I call to talk to my mom I often hear him howling in the background. The last time we visited I was not sure he knew I was his son… he gnashed his teeth in such a frightening way. When my wife gave him a glass of water he threw it at her. But dad was not always that way.

He was born in Chicago in 1931 during the great depression. Dad used to say that they were lucky. His father was a baker so they always had something to eat.

My Dad, Roger is 3 and his brother Allen is 5 in this picture. Their parents were Evelyn and Eric:

Dad and mom met at a dance. Music was playing but no one was dancing and that was making my mother extremely annoyed. When he finally approached and asked her to dance she did not merely graciously accept. Not my mother. It was a rather harsh retort, something to the effect of "well, I didn't come here to stand around!" Mom and dad have been dancing now for 66 years.

Dad joined the Navy in February of 1951 and attended boot camp at Great Lakes Naval Training Center. Here he is visited by his parents, younger sister Kathy, and soon to be bride, Loretta:

Dad's rating was damage controlman (DC) and after boot camp he was assigned to the USS Chilton (APA 38). The Chilton was stationed at Norfolk, Virginia after having served extensively in the Pacific. During Dad's time aboard she would undergo overhaul at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard, conduct local and Caribbean operations and make two deployments to the Mediterranean. Before he could participate in that something else was on his mind.

Mom and Dad were married April 22, 1951. As I recall hearing it, the romantic proposal went something like this: Dad said, "I could get more money while I am in the Navy if we get married now." Mom said, "Okay." And that was that.

Like my father, I would also serve in the Navy. My son chose the Marine Corps:

Dad was discharged from the Navy on February 9, 1955. He was a Damage Controlman Second Class (E5) when he got out. He was offered E6 and a shore duty assignment in Europe if he reenlisted. I heard that my mom was kind of excited about the idea of living in Europe but dad turned it down.

Dad and mom returned to Chicago. Initially dad worked in his father's trade as a baker. Baker's hours, however, did not agree with him so he entered the roofing trade. Mom and Dad began building their family. I was born in November of 1955. Shortly after I was born a four generation picture was taken. We have duplicated this photo twice so far with successive generations:

The next time around I will be in the hot seat… and dad will drop off the picture.

Dad worked as many as three jobs simultaneously to provide for his family in those early years. Eventually he bought Keefer Roofing. By 1960 we were a family of seven and dad and his partner were running a very successful roofing business.

A 1965 family portrait:

My dad provided extremely well for his family. As kids growing up in the sixties and seventies we had an unbelievable life. As we moved into adulthood dad was always there to help in every way imaginable.

Mealtimes were usually lively at our home. We ate together around a large white circular table. One of our games was to try to get someone to laugh while they were drinking milk. Everyone got a kick out of the mess that ensued except my mother.

My favorite meals were on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon when dad would announce that we were having steaks on the grill. Sometimes he chose New York Strip steaks… other times Delmonico's (I think these were actually ribeye's) but he was always excited about the chosen cut… and about grilling.

We had a large, round classic Weber charcoal grill. He would pile the briquettes high and douse them with gasoline. That's right… no lighter fluid for us… it was gasoline. After all, we already had the gas on hand for the mower! A strike of the match, a loud whoosh, and soon the grill was ready for the steaks. Dad liked his steak "charred pink". Evidently this is a thing because I have heard him order it this way in a restaurant. Well, he always got the charred part right. Mom would fix the side dishes and get us all seated around the table and dad would proudly bring in the platter of steaks. "They look a little burnt dad" someone would say. "That charcoal is good for your stomach" would be his reply. Often my mom would say "Rog, the steaks taste like gas". I only remember liking them.

On one occasion I was helping my dad grill. He had just finished dousing the coals and had set the gas can on the ground near the grill. Evidently he misjudged the vapor cloud because the fiery ignition startled him. In jumping back from the flames he knocked over the gas can. Fire blew out from the lower vent holes in the grill catching the gas can on fire. So the grill is a fire ball and the yard is on fire as flaming gasoline streams from the can. Fortunately the garden hose was near and we were able to quickly put the yard fire out. Soon the coals were ready. The steaks were a bit charred but great as usual.

I probably eat too much steak. It's my dad's fault for creating such great memories.

Dad loved sports. At our house there was usually a game of some sort playing on the TV. I remember him taking me to watch the Bears, the Black Hawks, college football at Northwestern, and of course, trips to watch the Cubs play at Wrigley Field. When we went Ernie Banks was playing first base. Dad is still a Cub fan:

Dad tried to encourage me to play baseball and football but it didn't click. I was more interested in electronics and building radios and such but my younger brothers loved to play ball. The little league was growing in our area and needed to expand so dad agreed to coach a new team. Stu was the pitcher and Andy the catcher. The first year was a disaster. They finished the season with one win and sixteen losses. I rode my bike to the ball field to watch part of one of those games. Stu was having a bad day and throwing a lot of balls, walking in quite a few runs. Andy was getting mad and throwing the ball back to Stu harder than Stu was pitching. Someone from the stands was heard saying, "The catcher is throwing better than the pitcher." I arrived to the sound of heckling. Mom was standing up and screaming from the stands, "pull him out, Rog, pull him out!" Easy mom, it's just a little league game. She left in disgust when she could take it no longer. Eventually dad did pull Stu and one of the sixteen lost games was over.

Fast forward a couple of years. Dad is still coaching and the team is on fire. Stu had moved up to the pony league and Andy was now the pitcher. Andy would pitch a perfect game that season and the team would win the league championship with a sixteen and one record. The "one", however, was a problem for a coach as passionate as my dad. The fateful game came late in the season. The league championship was already theirs. I wasn't at the game but eye witness reports indicate that the officiating was very poor. One of my dad's players was yelling at an umpire from the dugout and was thrown out of the game. Then there was a terrible call at first base that had my dad out on the field furiously arguing with the umpire. He was thrown out of the game. But dad didn't quit. To the very end he was calling out instructions to his assistant coach Ray. Nevertheless the game was lost.

Ray took my dad over to his house after the game to settle him down. The details of what transpired there are unclear. Perhaps they celebrated what was still a fantastic season. After all they were the best team in the league. It is more likely, however, that they were commiserating about being robbed of the perfect season. What is absolutely clear is that the afternoon included the consumption of a large amount of wine.

Later that afternoon a car rolled into our driveway with my dad in the back seat and mom yelled for help. Evidently I was laughing pretty hard because Stu recalls that it was my laughing that set him to laughing. Stu seems to remember that we had to get dad up from the driveway. I thought we helped him from the car. Either way, dad was not helping us much as we helped him into the house and into bed. We got him laid down and soon there was more screaming. "He's throwing up blood, he's throwing up blood!" Turns out it was just the wine. Dad was fine. What a season.

Dad loved to play golf. Whenever we would drive past a cemetery he would shake his head and say "that could have been a nice golf course". Dad eventually traded the snow blower for a golf cart. Mom and dad moved to Florida beginning in 1997 (for the winters) and eventually decided to move there permanently.

I rode on my first RAGBRAI with my two oldest daughters in 1998. It was a great experience. In 2007 my dad joined us. Originally mom had planned to ride too. But the more she thought about seven days of bike riding across the entire state of Iowa the less she liked the idea. Throw tents and port-a-pottys into the picture and she was out. We had four generations on that ride. It was a fantastic time:

In 2011 the family was together at a block party at Stu's house in Chicago:

The next day we surprised mom and dad with an anniversary party:

The Psalmist declares that "Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them." Surely my dad is blessed. With five children, twenty four grandchildren and somewhere around seventeen great-grandchildren his quiver is certainly full.

Sometime in the 2011-2012 time frame dad had a small stroke or series of small strokes. Dramatic changes soon followed. He had difficulty speaking. You could see that he understood the conversation and wanted to say something… he just couldn't get the words out. During a visit to Florida we took mom and dad to a restaurant. Dad got confused and tried to eat with the straw. We had to put the fork in his hand. But dad did not lose his ability to worship the living God. We went to church with them and saw dad come alive. He was up moving and clapping with the worship songs. I am pretty sure he is looking forward to going home.

As for me, I know that I also am a blessed man. I am thankful to God for my wonderful wife, kids, step kids, and grandkids. The latest addition to my quiver is Ian.
I miss being able to talk with my dad and share life experiences with him. But it will not always be this way. The apostle Paul writes, "Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed - in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: 'Death has been swallowed up in victory' "

I started writing this on Father's day with the intention of posting it that day. Well it took a bit longer than I thought. I am thankful for my dad and think of him often. I want him to know I love and appreciate him.

Now I need to get going on dinner. Tonight we're having steaks on the grill.