On the
surface, my father was a family man, a working class guy, a foreman at a
chemical plant. But that wasn’t what
made him tick. Above all, he was an outdoorsman. A hunter, a horseman, a hiker
– more cowboy than community member.
When I was
six, he moved the family to a rural part of New Jersey, to a house on a
mountain, on a dirt road, surrounded by woods. He called the house the
Ponderosa and that said a lot about who he was.
He converted
a dilapidated shed in the backyard into a barn and kept horses throughout my
boyhood. He and my mom rode them on the trails near the house. For a while dad
would enter small town harness races with a two-wheel carriage called a “sulky.”
He won some ribbons with a horse flamboyantly named “Fashion’s Golden Flash.”
And no, I didn’t name him.
When he
wasn’t indulging his inner cowboy, dad let his inner farmer come out and play.
He had a big chicken coup and a garden in the summer where he grew tomatoes and
cucumbers and zucchini. My God, the zucchini. Bowling pin size. Baseball bat
size. Guinness Book size.
When I was
in my early 30s, my parents retired and moved to Florida. For an outdoorsman like dad, living in suburban Port St.
Lucie was like a captured white Bengal tiger trying to blend in at the bingo hall. He never completely adjusted to living in Florida, but he
and my mom spent many good years there, with trips back to New Jersey and
visits from friends and family. I personally was a fan of the Florida move
because it meant I got to see them more and create new memories through the
years.
Speaking of memories …
I will remember the great hikes we took when he would go back
to New Jersey for hunting season and I would join him. The highlight was always
navigating our way up a mountain near the old house and emerging out on
the open rocks for an amazing view of the Wanaque Reservoir. It was his
favorite spot … mine, too.
I will remember how we would
watch old movies – usually westerns – and test each other’s knowledge of
actor’s names and what else they were in. Remembering that James Garner started
in westerns and wound up playing a private detective in The Rockford Files
earned you a special kind of respect with my dad.
I will remember going on
father-and-son walks and smoking cigars with him when he and mom would visit my
wife Sherry and I. It’s the only time I smoked cigars. I’m sure dad could tell
by the fact I couldn’t seem to keep them lit.
I will remember that he lived in
Florida for over 30 years and never once wore a pair of shorts. Now that’s a
cowboy.
I will remember how
uncharacteristically silly he would get when we played dominoes, making funny
voices, whistling, singing – it was not the Big Al most people got to see. I
loved that side of him.
I will remember his genuine love
for me, my brothers and my mother, a love that he got better at expressing in
his later years. He said it a lot. It
meant a lot.
My dad
passed away on September 2, 2020 from a blood clot following surgery for a
brain bleed. He was a month shy of his 88th birthday and his
departure has left an unfillable hole in my life. He will be with me every day
in my thoughts, my memories, and the very essence of who I am.
I picture
him now young and pain free, riding high in the saddle of a spirited appaloosa
on a clear mountain morning. He pulls in on the reins and the horse clomps to a
halt as he turns to say one last thing to me.
Dad: “Love
you, buddy. Love you lots.”
Me: “I
love you too, dad. See you back at the ranch.”
