If

If my dad was still alive, he’d be 100 years old tomorrow.  He lived until June 27, 1999 a few months short of turning 80.  That’s way too young, especially when I consider that I’m heading that way myself.

He lived a simple life, worked hard, and above all else, he loved his family.  My biggest regret since losing him is that he never met his three great grandchildren: Brady, Eva, and Marco (my sister Jackie’s grandson).  He would have loved them all.

It’s funny how minuscule events stick in your memory and pop up when you least expect them.  This blog is one such tale.

During my second year of teaching I lived with Chuck Jensen in Kalamazoo’s  University Apartments.   He moved in when Mike Smith moved out.  Chuck and I had several social gatherings in our apartment.  Chuck did most of the inviting. He reached out to all of our single friends.  He provided snacks, but everyone understood that the gatherings were BYOB.

At the end of each party, Chuck placed any empty liquor bottles that were left behind on the top of our refrigerator.  I never understood the reason behind the collection, but they became a point of pride for Chuck.  We never did anything with them.  They just sat there.

While I was a student, Western Michigan University held a “parents week-end” each fall during football season.  My parents and sisters drove to Kalamazoo for each one.  They stayed with my Aunt Emma and Uncle Jack.  They visited my dorm room, or apartment, during each trip.

My dad, Uncle Harry Mac, and cousins, Gene and Dick, came as a group twice to visit me in Kalamazoo.  The first time was to pick me up on my twenty-first birthday for our trip to the 1968 Indianapolis 500, and the second time was for Western’s “parent’s week-end” in 1970.  I was out of school so the “parent’s week-end” trip was just an excuse for them to come to Kalamazoo to hang-out together, away from their wives.

I remember just two unremarkable events from that week-end, but if it weren’t for  them, I wouldn’t remember the week-end at all.

Chuck was away when the quartet arrived.  They were in town for just one  night.

We drank a couple of beers and reminisced a bit about our trip to Indianapolis the first time they came.  As we talked, my dad zeroed in on the empty bottles on top of the refrigerator.  He said something like, “What the he!! is this?”, and he started throwing them in the trash.  It took him awhile as there were at least fifty bottles.  When the trash can was full, he hauled it outside and returned for a second load.  He saw what he deemed to be an “unsanitary” condition and took action to rectify it.  I protested a bit, but he knew that he knew better, so he didn’t stop until he cleaned out every bottle.

When Chuck returned late Sunday night, the visitors and bottles were gone.  I told him what had happened and that was the end of it.  We never discussed, and he never collected, more bottles.

I don’t recall where the four visitors stayed on Saturday night, but it wasn’t with me.  They did return early Sunday morning.  They hadn’t eaten breakfast and were hungry.  I  was dating a fellow teacher, Ruth, who lived about a mile away.  I called her and asked if she would come over and make breakfast for the group.  We could have made it ourselves but this was a way for me to introduce her to my uncle and cousins.

She arrived and looked sharp.  She appeared happy to help and joked with everyone as she cooked.  The menu was simple.  We had coffee, toast, scrambled eggs and Smokey link sausages.

As the preparation began, she dropped an egg on the floor, cussed a bit, and cleaned it up.  When she started to serve everyone, she dropped a Smokey link, cussed again, and kicked it under the stove.  Gene, Dick, and Uncle Harry laughed.  My dad didn’t say a word.  He just ate.

Over the years Gene and I shared that dropped Smokey link story dozens of times.  We laughed with each telling.  I’m smiling now as I write the tale.

If it weren’t for the fact that Chuck collected liquor bottles, and if Ruth hadn’t kicked the sausage under the stove, that week-end would have been lost from my memory forever.

But they did, so it’s not.

Bobby Unser, Paul Newman, and Me

Bobby Unser, Paul Newman, and Me – Episode Two