Pat's Father

The father of a close acquaintance of mine passed away on Thursday. Pat is an “acquaintance” because although I have known him for years, he lives out of town and I see him at most, maybe once each year. Lives often cross and then go different directions.

This was a particularly busy week for me. My office was installing a computer network, and I was having difficulty in purchasing a computer that worked. My choral group’s concert was this weekend and I was responsible for the church serving as the venue. That meant 3 hour rehearsals every night, plus extra time to make sure the church was open and then closed. So I was somewhat irritated when I got the call on Thursday about the passing of Pat’s father and the funeral arrangements. I simply could not handle one more thing, and I decided not to go.

My office associate also knows Pat, and when I described to him the conflict with the rehearsals and the Friday night wake and asked him to make my apologies, he told me that skipping the wake was fine, but I was free Saturday morning to attend the funeral. I didn’t know that a male could “guilt” me every bit as much as my Italian mother. Grudgingly, on Saturday morning, I put on my shirt and tie and drove to the funeral. Here is what I learned.

Pat is a great guy. He is a physician, a big, gentle man who is smarter than I will ever be. I knew nothing of his family. I found out he has a sister, who is nurse, and a brother, who is a school principal. It is a successful family by any measure. But when the siblings stood up to say a few words about their father’s life, my brain just wanted to shut down. What great things could this man possibly have done?

Then Pat’s brother started to talk. Pat's father was the son of an Italian immigrant, whose mother died when he was only 3. When he entered the 6th grade, his father told him to drop out of school and go to work to help support the family. He did so by working at a fish market, a poultry store, and any other odd job he could find. When he turned 18, he joined the army. He got married, and had his children. After World War II, he went to work in a factory, and when he finished work there, he went to any second job he could find. Pat’s brother said they never had any money, and they experienced “generic” living long before the rest of the country.

Pat’s father knew two things: work, work, and then more work. He also knew the value of the education he never had, and saved every penny he earned from those two or three jobs so all of his kids could go to college. He taught his children the value of hard work and knowledge. He did so ungrudgingly, and with an obvious joy of life that included cooking, baking, lace making, celebrating his Italian heritage, and caring for his friends and family to the best of his ability.

I learned today that greatness comes in many shapes and forms. I am glad I went to Pat’s father’s funeral. I am glad that Pat is my “close acquaintance”. But mostly I am sorry that I never had the chance to meet Pat’s father. He did an outstanding job.