Today is my Dad's birthday. He died a number of years ago.
He and I, we never quite saw eye to eye.
His eyes (a bit higher than mine) saw a different past, a different future.
I think that makes it likely that he saw further in both directions...he was taller after all, and he stood on the powerful shoulders of his immigrant parents. They were the sort of parents who knew of poverty and privation. It made them generous. When they laughed, the laughter was loud and real. When they ate, they cleaned their plates...always a final wipe with the last bit of bread.
My father held hope close to his heart...as though it was as much a burden as it was a gift. He took it everywhere, looking for chances to give small pieces of it away.
My father was stingy with his past...it wasn't a place he liked to share. He would not let us wear black jeans, or black high top sneakers because those were what the government issued to poor kids during the depression.
My father could never come to terms with communism, no matter how often I told him it was just like sharing. I didn't know, until much later, about how Stalin starved his people.
My Dad, Joseph, did not teach me to speak Ukranian. I think he felt like it might be a step backward. He was wrong about that.
He did teach me how to throw (really throw...not like a girl), he taught me that girls are as good as boys. He made it clear that I should not wait for someone to take of me. He taught me that I was as capable as anyone of learning to use a hammer, screwdriver, or a saw.
I learned to saw quite easily, that's when he told me that it's more important to see...to see that there is a world full of work to be done, that I was obligated to do some of it.
It was difficult for my Dad to tolerate sleeping late. He never did. If he was sick, he was sick standing up. Until he got really sick.
My Dad did not laugh often, so every time it happened it was a peculiar kind of blessing.
Once, while in my Father's care, my nephew Joe shoved a peanut up his brother Dan's nose. My Dad could never tell the story without laughing so hard his eyes would well with tears.
"Daniel...why did you let your brother stick a peanut up your nose?"
Why indeed.
In memory of Joe...off to work I go.
Filled with hugs I'd love to give,
Kari
