Leaning, Leaning. Leaning On The Everlasting Arms.

I look so much like him that when I visit my hometown of Belleville Illinois and go to Sts. Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church -- where he spent every Sunday of his life and many other days and nights as well -- the handful of gray haired old people who knew him almost gasp.  They shake their heads and smile, their eyes tighten and they click their tongues against the roof of their mouths, remembering one of the gentlest souls and finest men they have ever met.  Last time I was there, Mrs. Pangos crossed herself and hugged me tight.

"For a minute, Elia mou" -- my Lew -- "I thought it was Jimmy.  What a wonderful man!"

I purposely fight the urge to remember his face myself and reply "I know -- there is no mistaking whose son I am."  And then I ask her how her son John is doing.

It has been 17 years, 9 months and 26 days since he died.  With the stabbing grief of his death folded into a dull and permanent ache that is simply part of me like the shape of my stubby Fred Flinstone feet or my never ending appetite -- I am glad that a heart attack took him quickly.  I could not stand the thought of him going through a long and painful death.  It is true that I did not get to say goodbye to the man who set me on my life's path, but I am at peace knowing that, if there was pain for him at the end, it was brief and it passed before it hurt him too much.

Selfishly, I wish and pray that he was still here with me of course.  But I know in my heart of hearts that he is with God in a better place, happy, peaceful, content and without pain, worry or sorrow.  For eternity.  I gather the most comfort from knowing that he is with his wife, his parents and 2 of his sons.

The sad truth for me is that I love this man so much that I have trained myself to not think of him too much and to not see photographs of him too clearly -- I kind of look sideways at photos with him in them --conjuring up only broad generalities and fuzzy images of him as my father.  I pray for him on Sundays, I thank God for the blessings of a father who selflessly guided me through childhood and young adulthood, his hand always on my shoulder literally and figuratively.  But it's still too difficult for me to look too directly at his face or to remember his voice.  Instead, I move on in my life, standing on his shoulders, using his lessons -- "when not in use, turn off the juice" -- remembering his warnings -- "drive like all the other people are stupid because they are" -- and taking great comfort that I look so much like him that I frighten old women.

Beyond that, though, I try so hard to keep his memory blurry for my own peace of mind that I am afraid sometimes that I will never remember who he was.  To a great extent, he has become a collection of hard data.

I.  Born -- July 28, 1921 -- 89 years, 10 months, 22 days ago today.
II.  Counted as a US citizen on April 3, 1930 -- listed one line below Louis and Cherrie Hages on the 1930 East St. Louis, Illinois census by census taker Myrtle Tyers -- he was 8 years, 8 months and 6 days old at the time.
III.  Enlisted for World War II -- September 20, 1940 -- he was 19 years, 1 month and 23 days old and weighed 129 pounds.  He was 5'4".

IV.  Married to Stella in the largest wedding the church had ever seen -- September 30, 1945 -- he was 24 years, 2 months and 2 days old.  They had to remove the pews from the church to accommodate all the guests and people still talked about it when I was in high school 30 plus years later.

V.  Died -- August 23, 1993.

My father was a hard working man, always doing the best for his wife, his daughters, his son, his grandchildren.  He did not have a flamboyant personality -- my mother was always the loud, funny, naughty life of the party with a quick wit and a practical jokester mentality.  I always think of my mother as a force to be reckoned with -- he, on the other hand, was a constant gentle presence.  Always there, always ready to do something for you, always thinking of others and of me.  He wrote me long letters when I was in college and there was always a check or cash wrapped tightly in the pages.

He liked bologna sandwiches with mustard on them.  On hot vacation days, he wore long bermuda shorts that came down to the top of his kneecaps and long, over the calf socks -- called men's hosiery or manty hose by me -- that went up to the bottom of his kneecap.  He had no hair on the calves of his legs.  I only remember him having 1 pair of dress shoes.  He had thick wavy dark hair that only got salt and pepper as he got older.  Of course, his scary thick eyebrows remained coal black and had a life of their own.

When I went away to college, he told me to work hard, get straight A's, have fun, stay out of alleys and always keep my tie in my pants.  I thought he was stupid, thinking that we were supposed to dress up at U of I for classes or certain dinners or something.  You see, he did not go to college and I thought he just didn't get it.  It was years later that I realized his "tie in the pants" thing was just a safe sex message long before that sort of thing was necessary.  College or not, who really was the stupid one here?

I never heard him raise his voice to his wife or to me.  If he didn't like someone, they never knew it.  When he got mad -- which wasn't often -- he would get real quiet and go outside to do yardwork.  Even in the winter.  Even at night time.

I only have one memory of him getting mad at my mother.  I was a little kid and do not know at all what they were arguing about.  Her voice was raised, his was quiet, plaintive in response.  At some point he had had enough.  He walked calmly through the back room to the back door then returned into the kitchen.  He must have run his hands through his hair because it was sticking out all over like Harpo Marx, only dark.  Then he came through the backroom again, one red and white vinyl-covered metal kitchen chair in his hands.

I was scared.  I didn't know what he was doing with our chairs.

I soon found out.

He opened the back door and threw the kitchen chair out into the darkness.  I was wide eyed and silent, trying to recede into the knotty pine paneling when I heard the metal chair clanking down the concrete stairs to the patio.  "Oh my God, will our neighbors, the Minivers, hear this and think my dad has gone crazy?"  I sure did.

Then, one by one in a calm and solemn procession, he carried the other 3 chairs through the back room, to the back door and clankety clank out into the darkness, resting on the patio.  After the last one, he walked into the kitchen again.  It was deafeningly silent for a moment then I heard my mother talk -- "well, I hope you're proud of yourself."  I guess he was because the fight was over.

He retrieved the chairs the next morning but one of them had a bent leg that he never fixed.  That was his chair and nobody else ever sat in it.

I am crying as I write this, my face tight and hot.  The right sleeve of my "Bush-Cheney" t-shirt -- thanks, Beastmistress -- is damp from my tears.  It is hard to believe that I have  been able to live without him for 17 years, 9 months, 26 days.  With him here, I know that my life would have been better, richer, happier.

But the truth is -- even though it is the only comfort I have and maybe I just say it to ease the edges -- he is not really gone.  He is with me when I turn out the light in my closet on my way to the living room.  He is with me when I save the rubber band that was holding the asparagus together from Whole Foods.  He is with me when I try, try, try but fail, fail, fail to keep my anger in control (I guess this part of me is from Stella).  And as strange as this may sound, he is with me when I look at Jerry and feel pride at the good relationship we have built together.

I never told my dad that I was gay.  I told myself that I was being polite and respectful to someone from another generation -- someone who had lost 2 sons -- someone who only had me to carry on the family name.  But, if I am honest with myself, I didn't tell him because I was a coward, too afraid that he couldn't understand, would not be able to forgive me, that it would shame him, dishonor him.  Afraid that he would love me less or not love me at all and I just couldn't handle that possibility.  At that point in my life, I was sure I could not live without his wisdom, gentleness and constant encouragement.

Because of my lack of honesty, I will never know how he would have reacted to my news.  But on good days when I am feeling confident and strong, I remember his advice to "keep my tie in my pants" and I think he would ultimately have been okay with it.  I pray that I am right.

So, it's June 19, 2011 -- Fathers Day.  And this is my card to a man I hope I measure up to in some small way.  Happy Fathers Day, Dad.  I miss you.