Father’s Day is less happy than my first 58 Father’s Days. It’s hard to enjoy the day since my Dad passed away in 2016. I’m missing Dad.
When giving medical advice to friends, as friends do, I always joke that my knowledge was based on my father being an M.D…. No, he wasn’t a physician. He was a house painter (and in certain circles, I am still known as the painter’s son). My Dad was an M.D. because they were his initials, Milton Dunetz, MD.
Dad passed away early on Wednesday, November 2nd (sorry, liberals, but he voted early for Trump a few days before he passed away). Both of his parents were of Russian descent, so maybe his vote was the Russian conspiracy (it’s a joke, folks). Dad was a conservative who loved this country and served in the Philippines after WWII (they wouldn’t take him during the fighting because he was blind in one eye). He thought the food he was fed in the Army Air Forces was the best food he ever had (the USAF was called the Army Air Forces back then). Dad’s conservatism was on display when he taught me that people aren’t going to just give me stuff—the way to get ahead was to work my butt off.
The last time I saw him was when I visited him in Florida a week and a half before he passed. During that visit, he said more than once that my Mom, who had passed away seven years earlier, was calling him. Anybody who knew my Mom knows when she called, you better listen. I guess he listened because he died soon after. My father said that he wanted to make it to his 90th birthday. He made 90 plus three days, as his birthday was October 30th. As someone who does not believe in coincidences, it was no surprise that Dad’s Hebrew name was Noach, and the section of the Torah we read in Synagogue the week he passed away was Noach, the story of Noah and the flood.
Most people who met my father for the first time always commented on how nice he was. He was the nicest person I ever knew, not just because he was my father.
This may sound corny, but it’s true that wherever we were if little children or puppies were around, they would gravitate toward my Dad, probably because they sensed his good nature. You never had to tell my Dad to smile when you were taking a picture…he was always smiling.
In college, I would house-paint with my Dad during the summers. It was a great way to make money. The boss’s wife made me meals, I used the company car nights and weekends, and free cable at home.
Even when we were working outside on 100+ degree–humid days—days that would make most people miserable (like me), one could tell my Dad was painting that house because of the sound of him singing loud as he did his work. Generally, he got the tunes and words wrong, but it didn’t matter. He radiated joy most of the time–so much pleasure that I know it would have been much easier to bear if he had been around during this COVID lockdown.
Most people who met my father for the first time always commented on how nice he was. He was the nicest person I ever knew, not just because he was my father.
This may sound corny, but it’s true that wherever we were if little children or puppies were around, they would gravitate toward my Dad, probably because they sensed his good nature. You never had to tell my Dad to smile when you were taking a picture…he was always smiling.
When I was down in Florida just before he passed away, Dad was fighting dementia. He was desperately trying to hold on to his memory, continually going over everyone’s names, his kids’ names, the names of his children’s kids, the layout of our homes, etc. Incredibly through that desperate struggle, my father kept talking and singing happily because that was my Dad.
I have two adult children of my own. They bring me joy all the time. But celebrating Father’s Day together on Sunday can’t be quite as joyous as it was because my Dad won’t be here.
