My grandfather passed away in 1981, when I was 3. I have only one memory of him, but it's vivid. I was sitting at his kitchen table, and he was trying to make me laugh with the collection of dolls that my grandmother kept on the cabinet with the dishes. I don't know how the brain holds on to certain memories, but I was happy to have this one.
To this day, my father tries to make me laugh the same silly way - hiding my keys when I come over to visit or telling me to make a muscle and then squeezing the heck out of my arm to prove he's still stronger.
As the oldest of five kids, my dad had a lot of responsibility growing up, always trying to make sure the younger ones turned out OK.
When he became a father, he had the same worries for his own family. We grew up in a strict Irish/Italian Catholic household in Havertown. My father never had to raise his voice. He just gave you "the look" and you knew to behave. He didn't say much, but when he did, you knew he meant it.
He'd do whatever it took to support his family and never complained. When we were young, my parents didn't have a lot of money. They used to say they "didn't have two nickels to rub together." If the house needed work, my dad would get an estimate from a contractor and ask him in detail how he'd do the job - and then do it himself.
He's also the type of person who'd help you paint your house and never expect a thank you. "No problem, happy to help."
Growing up, it seemed to me that his life was always about his wife and kids - never about him. The little things in life are what mattered to him, whether it was his train collection, Ansel Adams photos or the out-of-date family photo calendar we made for him one year.
He was always there to make things OK and pick up the pieces, like dads are supposed to do.
