Father’s Day

By BILL BULEY

Staff Writer

My father, God rest his soul, died broke. He was a poor financial manager and accumulated great debt from which he could not escape.

He often complained about things and people.

He drank too much.

He made bad decisions.

I think, before he died, he was feeling a bit defeated, that life had gotten the best of him.

But that is not what I will remember him for on Sunday, Father’s Day.

From my father, I learned, in a nutshell, to work hard, a love for photography and books, and to cheer for the Fighting Irish.

While he never attended college, having to work right out of high school to help support his family, he encouraged his children to do so, and they did. Out of seven kids, five graduated from the University of Washington, and one from Washington State.

My father worked for the U.S. Postal Service much of his life. He quit, once, to operate his own grocery store in Seattle. It did not do well, probably because he was a soft touch and let people buy on credit, which they rarely paid back. He trusted the wrong people. And his kids literally ate all the profits, if there were any.

He operated a janitor business at night and all the kids pitched in to clean banks and dentist offices and professional buildings and laboratories.

We had no money for trips to Disneyland or Hawaii, but he did rent beach front cabins on Whidbey Island for one glorious week in the summer and we were free to do what we wanted from sunrise to sunset.

Our trips to Montana to visit my mother’s side of the family, all of us packed into the old Ford Country Sedan station wagon, were insane. I can only laugh looking back and wonder how my father could drive more than 1,000 miles roundtrip in a car packed with kids and still smile. I think it was knowing a cold beer awaited at the end of the drive.

But more than anything, my father enjoyed being with people. He loved it when family and friends watched Notre Dame’s football team on Saturdays. His parties were legendary. The upstairs and downstairs packed with people, the jukebox playing and people dancing, Others gathering around the player piano singing. My father had a fine voice.

He loved going out to dinner. He loved going to a bar, playing darts, listening to music and sharing stories.

He loved to tinker with stuff. He wasn’t particularly gifted at actually fixing anything, he couldn’t rebuild a car engine, nor could he remodel a kitchen. But there was never any doubt he worked hard. Always.

As he aged, his bad decisions caught up with him. In the end, he owned no property and had no money and many of his friends had died. His health failed and cancer claimed him. I shook my head and thought, “He should have known better. He should have taken better care of himself.”

Too bad.

I remember for a long time thinking I did not want to be like my father. I could do better. I could be smarter. I could make better decisions.

Maybe.

But maybe not.

Now, years later, when I think of my father, it’s not my father’s faults I remember. Perhaps he was a little wiser than I knew.

I remember his smile and his laugh and his joy when he was with friends and family. He was a man who valued relationships and being with others. He loved being with people and his delight of being with people, at times, overflowed. Little brought him more joy than to be visited by sons and daughters and grandchildren.

My father shined brightest when he was with people. Didn’t matter if they were strangers. I don’t know that I’ve met another person as gifted as my father when it came to striking up conversations with random people.

At his finest, my father had some Hollywood in him, he had one of those larger-than-life personalities and people gravitated to him.

My father understood something I still struggle to grasp. People, relationships, are important. He thrived on that.

I only told my father once, in a letter, that I was proud of him. He called to thank me. It meant a lot to him. I should have said it more often.

The other day I was singing loudly with a song blaring from our car stereo (“Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees, which I admit is not brilliant) and encouraging my wife to sing along with me. My wife is not always amused by such obnoxious behavior.

“You’re channeling your father.”

Normally, that would lead me to pause, stop, reset, start again. Be better. My father could definitely be annoying and that is a trait I definitely inherited.

But on that day, at that moment, I didn’t care.

Instead, I said, “That’s OK. I’m proud of my father. I loved my father.”

I kept singing.

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Bill Buley is the assistant managing editor of The Press.

He can be reached

at (208) 416-5110.