My Friend, and all I learned from him

 
He worked in construction as a "hod carrier." That was the guy who did the backbreaking job of carrying the heavy, wet plaster, in a big “V” shaped hopper, on his shoulder, up the ladder to the plaster who applied it to the building. He was basically, a laborer.
 
He was a simple, loving, gentle man who liked to have a few “cold ones” at Ernie’s Bar after work. When he and his wife divorced, he really accelerated his drinking.
 
He never talked much about his service in the military.  “Aw, I just guarded a bunch of cans of Spam on some South Pacific island,” Don answered to one of my questions.
 
He loved to tinker with mechanical projects and talk about inventing stuff. He subscribed to Mechanics Illustrated magazine and would frequently build their monthly projects in his garage.
 
After the divorce and the sale of his house, he moved into a boarding house. He had a cozy room, in the basement, next to the boiler, in a big two-story house where they served community dinners as part of your rent. There was no room for his beloved tools so he reluctantly sold them. He did enjoy doing odd jobs for the landlady who operated the house.
 
After a couple of years he moved from the cozy boarding house to a dingy, one bedroom apartment above a bar, “The Huntress Bar,” as I recall. I visited him there frequently. I didn’t like the apartment as it was dark and had one of those vertical signs right outside the window that blinked “The Huntress” off and on. At night, it gave the apartment a depressing feel of the heavy drinking detective’s seedy apartment in an old Damon Runyon movie, those black and white movies that became known as film noir.
 
He had a child of his marriage, a son who he loved a lot and was very proud of. The son was a bright kid who would drive cross-town to visit his father, usually on Sundays. When he visited, I would cringe when the kid found him drunk by noon, in The Huntress. 
 
From what I could tell, the kid really loved his father but he didn’t like seeing his father that way and was greatly pained by his drunkenness … he was ashamed of him.
 
The kid’s visits became less and less frequent.
 
Don found a woman in The Huntress … an alcoholic, as his first wife was, as he was. He married her and had an ok but humiliating ten years with her. She was abusive to him, as his first wife was. I saw her berate him in public as being "useless and a drunk," ignoring the fact she was also a drunk. He never seemed to defend himself against her tirades, saying only, “She’s right, I am useless and a drunk,” with a chuckle.
 
Visits by "the kid," who was now a young successful adult, only occurred infrequently, on holidays. I was there when the kid brought his new young wife to meet his father one Thanksgiving … I really saw the pain in that kid’s eyes when his father was too drunk to even focus on the kid’s new wife.  The kid was really ashamed of Don and he said some pretty cruel things to him that day, in fact, it sounded like he despised him for his "weakness."
 
The kid didn’t come around much after that.
 
Don’s wife died from breast cancer a year or so later. He really went downhill after that.  Six months after her death, Don was dead from cancer of the lung from his pack a day Lucky Strike habit. It happened so fast, I was sure he just "willed" himself to death.
 
There was no one else to do it, so I ended up cleaning out Don’s apartment. It was a bright Saturday morning in June when I picked up the keys from the bartender of The Huntress, “Open from 6:00 AM to 2:00 AM,” who was also the owner of the building and Don’s landlady.
 
Letting myself into his apartment, I was hit by the musty cigarette smell, mixed with whisky. I went through his apartment and piled everything in the living room. It didn’t take me long.  Soon, I was done.
 
It had been previously arranged to give all his belongings to the church’s charity arm and their truck was to be there at 1:30 PM, it was now 12:30 PM; I had an hour to kill.
 
I opened the refrigerator door and saw it was empty except for two cans of Coors beer. “Perfect,” I thought as I opened one and sat down at the small dinette in the tiny kitchen to quench my thirst. I was thinking of Don and how, there in a pile about 5’ tall, sat a 55 year old man’s lifetime … a LIFETIME reduced to a pile of “stuff,” that was about to be given to the church.  What a waste of a life.
 
Looking for something to read to pass the time, I rummaged through a box of letters and documents and stuff.  I found some old spiral notebooks that were written in Don’s handwriting, written when he was a young man, about the age his son was now. They told the story, in exciting, prolific prose, of Don’s desire to become a salesman. There was much research on the "what" and "how" of sales. It was a serious goal for him.
 
The written words disclosed a Don I never knew. His writing style was intelligent, funny, cohesive, and filled with excitement and hope; not what I expected from the depressed and lost Don I knew.  Funny, his son is a successful salesman; no wonder Don was so proud of him … his son accomplished what Don could not.  I know his son didn’t know this about his father, no one did. I put the notebooks aside for him.
 
Then I saw it! 
 
The envelope, old and discolored with age …
 
from the White House. 
 
It had an old 3 cent stamp on it.  I opened it gently, careful not to tear the old, brittle paper. I sensed this was something important, my hands were shaking a bit. The letter bore the seal of the President of The United States and was individually typed, thanking him for his bravery in service to his country during World War II. 
 
It was signed, "Harry S. Truman, President."
 
There were several small, velvet covered boxes that contained, nestled in the white silk lining, battle ribbons commemorating his bravery in battle. I could tell, the ribbons were never removed from their mount … he never wore them.
 
Other letters told of his service accomplishments and feats of bravery; lives saved,
 

“Without regard for his own safety he … "
 
“Against an encampment of well f

ortified enemy in superior numbers he … "
 
“He repeatedly exposed himself to enemy fire to drag the wounded … "
 
“Without regard for his own safety he … "

 
Without regard for his own safety … 
 
 
Without,
 
regard,
 
for,
 
his,
 
own,
 
safety …
 
 
 
Without …
 
 
 
Oh My GOD!
 
 
DAD!
 
  
All my judgments of him, all my cruel, degrading, abusive words to him about his drinking, about the embarrassment and pain he caused me, came back and hit me so brutally hard. I slid from the chair to the dirty linoleum and, in a prenatal position, sobbed. 
 
At that moment, the grief and the full impact of what I’d done hit me. I’d emotionally abused my father, just as his two wives had done! I felt worthless.
 
This soft, kind man who saved the lives of others but couldn’t save his own, was repaid by two wives and a son who responded to his lostness, by shaming him.
 
The bile rose from my stomach.
 
On my hands and knees, I crawled, scurried to the bathroom, where I vomited my grief, my pain, and my shame, into the dirty toilet bowl.
 
 
 
(Ah, now the tears come again as I write – just as fresh as yesterday.) 
 
 
 

 
I learned many important lessons from my father, Don. 
 
Among them …
 
I learned he didn’t waste his life; that sometimes, for some people, life becomes so painful they are knocked off track … but they are never declared a waste, by God. Who then am I to do so?
 
I learned humility; that I never know what’s going on for someone else and that my judgment is just me projecting what’s inside me, upon someone else.
 
I learned, I continually fail at not judging someone else … but I aspire to overcome.
 
I learned about giving without talking about your gift, without an expectation of a return.
 
Politics aside, I learned that the military men and women who have entered service to our country, do so for varying reasons but, when it comes time to do their job, they do it, and I want them to know, I really appreciate and thank them for that!
 
Today, Memorial Day 2005, I remember all those who died for us, our country, our way of life, our freedom …
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
and as I fly the flag of The United States of America from my front deck … the same flag given to me by the Veteran’s Administration to cover my father’s coffin, thirty-four years ago … I want every person who is now serving, or who has ever served our country, to know that I am grateful to you, as is our entire nation!
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
In addition, to my father, Donald C. Xxxxx, thank you dad, for your contribution to our country and for your contribution to me.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I love you Pop. You did good Pop, you did g-o-o-d!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I also learned … I have much to learn.
 
God bless,
 
Nunzio
 
 

(More about the picture) 
 
 
 
 
Want to "do" something?
 
 
 
 
 
 6525