When I was little, I didn’t have to wait long to understand who I was to my
father.

He sang it best through the words of Al Martino’s 1967 classic,
“Daddy’s Little Girl.”

“You’re the end of my rainbow — my pot of gold;
You’re daddy’s little girl, to have and to hold.
A precious gem is what you are — mommy’s bright and shining star.
You’re the spirit of Christmas my star on the tree,
You’re the Easter bunny, to mommy and me.
You’re sugar, you’re spice, you’re everything nice
And you’re daddy’s little girl.”

To be fair — he also sang it to my three sisters, making us all feel special,
but as he sang it to me — I was his only little girl in the world.

Figuring out who my dad was to me is still coming in — even now after his death, I consider.

First, he was a great teacher of all things including virtues, such as
patience, humility, appreciation, loyalty and graciousness.
He taught us these lessons by pointing them out through life’s occurrences, his
examples and during many evening recitations from one of his favorite books,
“The Best Loved Poems of the American People.”

Some of the most memorable are “Annie and Willie’s Prayer” by Mary
A.P. Stanbury; “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” by Myra Brooks Welch;
and “I had but 50 Cents” by Anonymous.

Other lessons came through his colorful tales of suspense growing up at St.
Joseph’s Orphanage in Dayton, Ohio, during the Great Depression, where his
ration of sugar was limited. The few times the orphans received pudding or something
sweet, they learned to promptly spit in it to prevent it from being stolen by
another.

And as a result, bypassing the strict nutritious offerings of my
mother’s health-food dietary plan, he managed to slide in the treats of which
he was always so creative in finding, such as hardened pieces of brown sugar,
spoonfuls of Hershey’s chocolate syrup and tiny cups of Karo syrup.

Something else he taught that seems strange to most, is to smell the goodies
before we ate them — which we still do and which we teach everyone to do.
When we started to take a bite he stopped our hands and said, “Look.” And
he would smell it, savoring and appreciating the size, shape and texture before ever knowing its taste.

In addition, dad was also my champion and defender against the critics inside and outside of the family. I was always making clothing — half inspired through Vogue magazines and the other half through thrift store finds. Whenever criticism came, he said, “Stop it — she is a great designer!”

As the breadwinner, he walked to work so my momma could drive. He dressed so sharply, always looking important and respectful in his leather ankle boots, suits, starched shirts, glasses and ties, and often a wide-brimmed black leather hat, adorned with feathers wrapped around the base.

His distinguished manner was sometimes mistaken for other important people. One time during my eighth-grade choir concert, someone said there was a scout in the audience looking for talent. I said, “Where?” And they pointed at my dad.

He was also asked to teach catechism at St. Leonard’s Catholic Church in Heath, Ohio, as the high school students were too rowdy for the volunteering ladies. For that he was given a hand-made wooden cross inscribed with The Bible verse Mark 3:35, “Whoever does God’s will is My brother and sister and mother.” It now hangs on my wall.

His teaching style was a little rough around the edges, as he taught God’s word with a long black leather coat, the hat and a cigarette in hand, but the book he knew as part of his rigorous, daily teachings in the orphanage. While he received some criticism of his style from the parents, a trail of high school kids was in and out of our house often, confiding in dad and seeking his advice. How lucky I was that I did not have to leave my home to find him.

Until one day he left me.
And on his way out, we said goodbye through the words of his favorite song, a ballad composed by Harold Arlen with lyrics by Yip Harburg.

“If happy little bluebirds fly
 Beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can’t I?”

I love you dad; and that is all.

Published in The Herald