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That Is My Father...
- Mar 16, 2009 at 7:52 PM
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- Comments (4) Total Views (119) Everyone can see this journal post.
Family, as I grew up, was about more than just siblings, grandparents, and cousins. It extended almost to the whole human race, or so it seemed. We carried soup to the neighbors, my brothers shoveled their walks, ran their errands, helped clean their homes, and we babysat their wee ones. You see, I grew up as the child of an Irishman. Such was our way of life. The way of the Irish.
So as a tribute to my Irish heritage on this St. Patrick's Day Eve, I decided to dedicate a journal to my favorite Irishman…my daddy.
Francis Michael Callahan was the 1st generation of his family to be born in America. Brooklyn to be exact. His parents came to this country the year before he was born and settled in Flatbush.
Living out the stereotype, my Dad joined the New York City Police Department in 1965 and started walking a beat in Hell‘s Kitchen. He worked his way up through the ranks of the NYPD until he moved us out of Brooklyn in 1982 and took a job with our suburban Connecticut police department, from which he retired a Detective in 1990. I've always been inordinately proud of him. Having a Cop Dad is only embarrassing when you're introducing him to your new boyfriend and he runs the poor kid's license number. (Yes, all cops with daughters actually do that.) But there are pitfalls to being a cop’s daughter, too. Like…how do you explain to someone in one conversation the gut-wrenching fear an 7-year old feels when they hear about another Cop who was shot on the job? How do you explain "Bye Daddy, I hope I see you later!"? How do you explain the million battles fought every day in a city the size of some Eastern European countries?
It's not that surprising that a large Irish New York family would have a number of public-service members in it. Besides my Dad, I have uncles (retired) and cousins (current) in the Police, Fire and Corrections Departments of New York. And my brother Eddie…a detective here with our local police department. (My father was so proud that one of his kids followed him into the police force that I thought he was going to burst.) They are all hard-working family guys who will swig a beer with one hand while spinning a Frisbee to their kids with the other while expostulating on their theory of "Why Mayor LaGuardia Was Personally Responsible For Chicken McNuggets". While barbequing hot dogs and hamburgers for 50 people, of course!
Just run of the mill guys, right?
Not my dad. There is nothing run of the mill about him. My dad is an amazing man.
As a child growing up, I held two irreversible facts about my father…that he was the strongest man alive and that he contained a storehouse of all the world’s knowledge and wisdom. While my own inner strength has grown to match, and my knowledge expanded to encompass similar range, my respect and amazement for my father’s wisdom remains unchanged. I look inside myself and wonder if I have this same potential; to lead, and mentor, affect change in the world… and most of all raise my own children with such courage and love.
I am a capable, competent, confident woman who has no problem standing up for myself. I got that from my dad.
But he wasn’t always an easy man to love.
Growing up, my brothers and Jenny and I would say that Dad has two speeds…happy and angry. And they could change at any given moment. When he’s happy, he reminds me of Santa Claus. Or, to stay true to his heritage, a leprechaun. He has a laugh that is big and booming and can be heard for miles around. When he scoops you up in a bear hug, he practically squeezes the life out of you. But in a good way, if that is possible. He is quick with a joke and always seems to have a glint in his eye that lets you know he is up to something.
But when he is angry…look out!! I have been on the receiving end of one of my father’s angry rants and it’s not something I want to repeat anytime soon. Even if you are not the one he is angry with, you know to stay out of his way. His temper is legendary. And guess who inherited it??? Yep, yours truly! When my dad and I go at it…and we have…clear the room!! (Let me clarify…words only! My dad has only laid a hand on me once to spank me and my mother assures me that my mouth and I deserved it.)
My mother used to try to soothe things over for us kids after one of my dad’s big blow-ups by telling us that he doesn’t mean to get so angry. And that he doesn’t mean to be so hard on us. But his father was a hard man and it takes a long time to unlearn so many things that you grew up learning.
When I was sixteen, my Gigi (grandma - mom’s mom) explained it to me in a way that I have never forgotten. I was complaining about my father not caring about something that seemed so important to me at the time and was pouting about it. Gigi told me that while I may think that my dad is not always there for me like some fathers are or that he puts me third behind his job and the boys, his father was no picnic either. And until he met my Papa Sal (my grandfather - Gigi‘s husband), my dad had no idea what a real father was supposed to act like. And sometimes he gets a lot of things wrong, especially when it comes to feelings and stuff he’s not good at. But when my dad gets it right…it’s parades and skyrockets. And I should cherish every moment because he’s one of a kind and he loves me so much.
I accepted that when Gigi told me. Because I had heard the stories about my paternal grandfather and why we never saw him. So I accepted what my father gave me and was happy. Because Gigi was right…when my daddy gets it right, it is parades and skyrockets.
And then one day I saw something I had never seen before. I saw something from my father besides happiness and anger. I saw sorrow. And I saw him cry.
The day of my sister’s funeral.
The day my parents buried their child.
I found him out in the backyard, sitting by himself on the steps to the deck. He was drinking a beer…not his first of the afternoon, I’m sure…and looking out at the yard. I don’t think he was really looking at anything in particular…just staring. I had brought him a fresh beer, so I sat down next to him and handed it to him. He barely acknowledged my actions, but I didn’t get up to leave right away. So we just sat there. There was so much to talk about, but instead my daddy and I just sat and drank our beer in silence. Until finally he spoke…
“I buried my little girl today.” He said, never looking right at me. His voice broke as he added, “No parent should ever have to bury their child. But I did. I buried my little girl.”
I was silent as I waited for him to compose himself because I knew how hard this was for him. Finally, he took a deep breath and continued, “With all my training as a cop, I thought I was ready for anything that life could throw at me. Any situation. I can chase down criminals, talk down hostages, and stare down the barrel of a loaded gun without flinching. But there is no training in the world that can prepare you to bury your own child.”
I had never seen my father so vulnerable before. Then suddenly, he turned and smiled at me through his tears as he admitted, “Having daughters scared me to death, you know? When Mikey was born a boy, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. And then Tommy came along and I thought I was safe. Then Joey and I was 3 for 3. But then the nurse handed your sister to me in a little pink blanket and...I had no idea what to do. Then Eddie came along…then you, and now I had two little girls. I didn’t know anything about little girls. I didn’t have sisters. The first female I really even knew was your mother. So I treated you like the boys and let your mom handle all the touchy-feely girl stuff…”
His voice trailed off and we were quiet again as he told me quietly, “The last time I spoke to your sister, I think I hurried her off the phone. The pub was full and I didn’t have time to talk to her or something…”
He trailed off again as he got lost in his thoughts and his guilt. After a moment, he said, “I love you girls so much. You are what gave me the strength to chase down those criminals and look down the barrels of those guns. Because I would do whatever it took to get back home to you.” Taking another sip of his beer, he added quietly, “I should have come to more of your tea parties. Or listened to you when you wanted to tell me about all your boyfriends or whatever. Or told you more often how proud I am of the women you have become. I didn’t always go out of my way to tell you girls....”
“We knew, daddy.” I reassured him, putting my arms around him. “Jenny knew, too. I know she did. And she was proud of you, too. And she loved you as much as you love us.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.” he whispered into my hair, his eyes filling up with tears that he didn’t want me to see. Tightening his embrace, he said softly, “We’re going to get through this, Dani-girl. We’re all going to be okay. It‘s just what we do.”
It was the only time in his life that I saw my father cry. And it was over before it really began. A few minutes later, we were back up and in the living room accepting condolences from family and friends. Because that’s just what we do.
My daddy is the one who showed me how to throw a ball and tie my shoelaces. From my father, I learned right from wrong and the value of integrity regardless of the cost. He taught me how to ride a bike, drive a car, shoot a gun, ride a horse, make an omelet, and plant a garden. He helped me learn to write. He’s the one who showed me how to change a tire and the one who sewed up my childhood war-wounds…the ones I got from tagging along after my brothers. My dad gave me flammable chemicals for devious pursuits while teaching me how to be responsible. He showed me how to fight with words instead of fists and he gave me permission to defend myself. He also taught me the dignity of walking away. He modeled the value of giving. My father wasn’t afraid to be himself and taught me how to be independent. He let me lead when I felt strong, and forged ahead when I was too scared. From my father I learned the value of discipline, the wisdom of correction, and the satisfaction of a job well done. From him I learned about God and simple faith. He taught me the value of prayer. He demonstrated unshakable faith. He showed me how to serve. And even though I couldn’t always see it when I was a child, my father unconditionally put his family first and modeled unceasing selflessness.
Growing up, Dad always said to us “Remember whose child you are”…a wordplay he used to remind us not only to look to what he and mom had raised us to be, but also to God our Father as our ultimate role model. It was a reminder that we are from roots that go deeper than ourselves, and therein lies the strength to be more than we are.
That is my father…
Comments:
This is such a beautiful tribute to your Dad. Your Dad sounds alot like my husband, I guess being an officer has that affect on men:) He has to be so proud to have such a wonderful daughter!
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You never fail to bring the emotions I keep way down inside right to the top. My dad is gone now and the missing and longing for Daddy never leaves me. I hope and pray you and your dad have many, many more years to share and even though God has thrown curveballs into your lives, may you always remember that the love you have for each other only grows stronger from the curveballs. Enjoy every moment of the time you have and no matter what, always, always honor him, love him and make all the memories you can. They help us to hold on when the time comes that we say goodbye to the hero, our Daddy.
- foreverb3
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