There are several popular posts appearing on Facebook. There’s one about golf that keeps popping up. It asks you to name your dream foursome. For me that’s always been easy, I’d choose my three kids, David, Elizabeth, Michael and me. Ruth’s recent resurgence on the links muddies the waters a bit, but if we couldn’t go out as a fivesome, I’d still go with the kids. Getting the three of them together to do anything is a challenge, so I’d grab the opportunity. If the rules guy said that I had to choose professional golfers, I’d pick Freddie Couples, Phil Mickelson, and Arnie.
I saw another question the other day that asked, “If you could talk to someone for one hour, who would you choose?” There’s a number of good options: great orators, religious figures, , Nobel prize winners, human rights leaders, political figures, sports personalities, scientists, explorers, inventors. The list of options is endless. When I asked Ruth who she’d opt for, she said, “Jesus”. That’s a great choice.
I didn’t have to ponder the options very long. If I had such an hour, I’d choose my dad. He’ll be gone for twenty-one years later this month. His final months were confined to hospitals and nursing homes, and while those months were terrible for him, they were good for me. I visited with him almost every week. We spoke one on one, took drives to visit family members, went out to eat, played cards, and on most occasions, we shared stories. I let him do most of the talking, and I just listened. I let him direct the path our conversations took as I didn’t wish to bring up memories that might be upsetting. During our talks, I validated my beliefs about him and heard a few new tales.
If I could choose the place, I’d opt for St. Peters Church Cemetery in Mt. Clemens, Michigan. It’s a quiet place so I expect we’d be able to speak privately. We visited the cemetery on one of our drives because that’s where is birth mother, Nettie, and his grandparents, Mary and George are buried. Dad was fourteen years old when he helped dig his mother’s grave. If you’ve read all my blogs you understand the relationships. If not, I’ve provided links to two that I wrote last summer.
During our visit I learned that my extended family is larger than I thought. George Tebo had one brother that I knew, Art. During our visit to the cemetery Dad spoke of eight children: Vern, John, George, Alfred, Dudley, Art, Maud, and Jess. I asked him to write their names on a slip of paper so I wouldn’t forget. With six male Tebos, it’s no wonder I’ve been asked several times if I’m related to so and so. I probably am.
During our hour I’d try to learn more about my extended family. My guess is he’s told me what he knows, otherwise, we would have discussed it during our fifty-two years together. But if he had more to share, I’d love to hear it.
The first question I’d ask is pretty straight forward. In a complicated world, it’s pretty simple. Dad didn’t make it to many of my ball games. He worked long hours and seldom got home in time. I played football in eighth and tenth grades. He never made it to any of those. I played organized baseball for a half dozen years, and he may have made it to about that many games. I remember one game in particular, because one of the umpires didn’t show up. The coaches recruited Dad to ump first base. He hadn’t been to any of my games that year, so I didn’t think he’d recognize me in my uniform.
On my first trip to the plate I pulled the ball to third. I’ve never been fleet of foot, but I managed to make it fast enough to make it a bang – bang play. Dad called me safe, and the opposing coach, Mr. Sura, moaned, “Ah, come on Tony.” I think I was safe. I’m sure my foot hit the bag before I heard the ball hit the glove, but I’d asked Dad if I really made it or he just ruled in my favor.
I’d tell him about David, Elizabeth and Michael and the great partners they’ve chosen. I’d show him a picture of Brady and Eva and brag a bit about them. I’d also show him two other pictures, one of him as a young man and another of our Michael (Dad called him Frenchy). I think they look alike, and they both resemble Tony Jerome.
But most of the hour, I’d like to hear anything he wished to share. I think I’m a better listener now than I was twenty-one years ago. I’m not focused on my job, striking deals, earning money, or concerned about the kids making it through college. I listened pretty well at work but wasn’t always tuned in with my family.
I’d like to know his views on what’s happening today. Most of all, I’d like to hear his voice. I remember how it changed over the years. His tone grew weaker as he aged. I sometimes hear my voice do the same.
He wasn’t a yeller. He spoke and expected you to follow along. He offered up a lot of “If I were you.” words of advice. I’d like to hear it all again, because now that I’m older, I might agree more often.
Vulgar language was not his style, but he wasn’t perfect in that respect. He offered up a few GDs but most were through frustration rather than anger. I dropped an F-bomb once during a poker game at my cousins, Bob and Beverly’s, house. It’s the only time I swore in his presence. I was well into my twenties, and had too much to drink, but he still let me know my words were unacceptable. He was right.
I’ve got pieces of his stories stored in my brain. I’d like to have him retell them so I could lock the entire truth together. We loved many of the same people and I’d like to speak of them again. The more I write, the more I remember. It’s both a blessing and a curse. It makes me happy to recall those who loved me but makes me miss them more.
You’ve made it this far through my tale, so let me offer an “If I were you.”, I think Dad and I would share. “If I were you, and you still have an hour to speak with someone, take advantage of it, even if you do it in a dozen five-minute chunks.”
I’m certain you won’t regret it, but you may if you don’t.
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