My
father-in-law and I were about as opposite as you could get. Ed Lisoski was a
night owl, always finding a reason to stay up well past midnight. I was a
morning person, trading late-night merriment for pre-dawn runs and sunrise
solitude. Whenever my wife Sherry and I stayed with her mom and dad, I always
had some version of this conversation with him around 11 p.m.
Ed:
“You want some roast beef, Al? How about a shot and a beer?”
Me:
“I just brushed my teeth and was heading to bed.”
Ed:
(Surprised): “Oh ... sure ... ok, old buddy. See
you in the morning.”
I always felt like a party pooper around
Ed, which underscores another notable difference between us: He loved a big party,
I liked small get-togethers, especially ones that ended by 11 p.m. During my first few years in the family I was
repeatedly distressed by outings that stretched on way past my stamina and hunger
for revelry.
One particular Elks club dinner epitomized
the pattern. The night started out with a crowd of about 200 people, a live
band, open bar and enough food to stuff a herd of actual Elk. I ate, I drank, I
even danced. At some point, I noticed the crowd was thinning out as the evening
cycled down. I was ready to join the exodus. Ed had other plans.
“Everyone’s leaving, why are we still
here?” I asked Sherry despairingly.
“Dad’s having a good time. He wants to be
here when they end the evening with the Elks’ absent brothers toast and sing
Auld Lang Syne.”
“They’re putting all the chairs on the
tables and vacuuming,” I pointed out, embracing my role as a wet blanket.
Oh me of little faith. With Ed leading the
search party, an authorized Elks officer was rounded up and the handful of us
left at the lodge did the toast and sang Auld Lang Syne like it was midnight,
New Year’s Eve.
Ed: "How about a shot and a beer, buddy?"
Me:
“I was thinking more like a bed and some shut eye.”
Ed:
(Surprised): “Oh ... sure ... yeah, you look tired.
Better get some sleep.”
Ed was a man of big appetites and one of
his cravings was the daily news. He was a newspaper junkie and, in addition to
the paper he had delivered to the house, he would pick up an assortment of
local rag sheets in his travels. Often, without any obvious relevance to other
people in the room, he would read some random story out loud.
“Thief Steals Wooden Sign From Local Park,”
he’d announce, broadcasting some yawn-inducing headline.
“Is that a park you go to?” I’d ask,
expecting a connection.
“No, no. I don’t know where that park is,”
he’d say, looking up at me blankly.
I finally realized over the years that Ed was
just the kind of guy that wanted to share with you whatever he had. Sometimes
it was a shot and a beer. Sometimes it was the Pizzelle cookies he was so fond
of making for friends and family. Sometimes it was a Polish song he loved ...
or just a story in a community paper.
Ed passed away on
July 27, 2013 after battling various ailments and physical setbacks, including
six years as a dialysis patient, having one of his legs amputated, and being
confined to a wheelchair for the last three years of his life. He was 92, but
even as his body wore out and frailty diminished his once robust presence, he
never stopped being the larger than life Big Ed that marked the majority of his
time on Earth.
Ed packed his life
fuller than most. He was a proud ex-Marine who served his country as a Master
Tech Sergeant during World War II. Before retiring, he relished his work
testing new car design enhancements at General Motors. He loved his Polish
heritage, music of all eras, dancing, hunting and fishing. He was devoted to
his wife Leona, daughter Charlene (a.k.a. – Sherry), son Dennis, and his many
nieces, nephews and godchildren.
I was Ed's
son-in-law, but that description is way too formal to capture how he treated
me. Ed had a way of making everyone feel special, and he always made me feel
like his other son. He called me "Aloosh" or "Old Buddy"
and even in his downward spiral toward the end always wanted to know what was
going on in my world.
Big Ed was a people
person with a great curiosity and zest for life. I'll always remember him that
way and admire his courage and fighting spirit when times got tough. Love you,
Dad L. I will miss you every day.
Ed:
"How about a shot and a beer, old buddy?"
Me:
“I was hoping you’d ask again. Count me in.”
