"MON PAPA" My father, a man of integity; a man of honest demeanor; and a man probably as humble as they come, who was, at the same time, a man of rare emotion except when he had a few beers under his belt. In appearance he was 5'11," with platinum blond hair, blue eyes and a firm jaw. He was a taciturn sort of a man, preferring to let others do the talking. He was a Fireman, and he was a fireman until he retired. He never wanted to rise in rank, even when he was offered a lieutinant's commision at the Central Fire Department in the city. He liked to fish, but hunting wasn't his thing. Before I was born, he won the state's Golden Glove Award for boxing. Later, he became the state's best pool player. He loved his pool as much as he loved his beer; he used to go to the Franco-American club frequently on his day's off to play for money. He rarely lost. In his fireman's uniform, he would walk all the way from the middle of the city back to home. He was a formidable sight to see, for he walked ram-rod straight, his facial features locked into a fixed semi-stern-semi-grinning appearance, like he knew something about any one he looked at. He never varied in his stride and, when he was just about a block away from home, the kids I was playing with would all sort of step back as he approached, for he looked really Teutonic when he would remove his cap to reveal a crew-cut (almost-white) as he came nearer. The kids thought "Gee, he looks like a Nazi SS guy! He may have looked like that but he would never use violence on anyone. He never hit me. That was my mother's privilege and job. My father was so "Nordic," even from his tanned face, that all his firemen chumps, cops, and neighbors called him by his nickname "Whitey." That man had but one or two hairs on his chest, none in his armpits, and just a small, blond island of hair in the pubic region. Imagine, white people calling him "Whitey! I always thought that was remarkable. As a fireman, he rescued so many people, dogs, cats in trees, and found wayward kids; in addition, he was the one who volunteered to drag the lakes, ponds and rivers for those who lost their lives by drowning. He did the sad, lonely and gruesome jobs to the point that Whitey was the favored guy to send out for rescue for, even without professional training, he knew the ropes. His favorite job, howebver, was to drive the rear end of the large ladder trucks. He knew his stuff there, swinging around obstacles and making those corners like a pro. He never had an accident, but many others who drove in his place usually turned a funny colored-green in making those turns! When I was 7years old, I almost died from an infectious, virus condition. I remember that moment when he lifted me from bed at home and hung on to me. Even when I vomitted and pissed on him, he just hugged me all the harder and not even bothering to clean off the mess. I felt his strong hands about me and smelled his sweaty, firesmoked shirt (he had just got back from a fire), and then I don't remeber anything else except when I woke up in the Isolation ward of the hospital. He never worried that I might have given him the virus. Not he. He taught me to fish, to drive a car later on, and other thigs. He taught me how to safely use a rifle. But he also taught me to witness things that a boy my age should see only later on. When I was about 8. he brought me to a slaughter-house to see a live cow given a blow to her head with a mallet, pulled-up on a hook, her throat slashed with a huge knife, and left to bleed out her life then and there. I don't even remeber how I felt then. The experience ends there. I raised chikens and ducks in our backyard, and where our small plot of ground surrounded the coops was a vegetable garden, which I took care of . I always loved to gather up the eggs!. I did not realize, however, that the grown chickens would end up on our dining room table - my pets! Moreover, when they were ready for that day, my father brought me down to the cellar and told me to help him. The chickens were already departed souls by that time, and papa had already pulled them out of the boiling wate in order to loosen the feathers. He said to me "Pull out the feathers like this...I'm going to get the other chickens." Again, I did what I was told, for I loved this man, but I don't remember much about that experience either. I ate the chikens later and thought nothing of it. Young minds tend to wipe out unpleasant memories. I remember clearly 'though that when I was even younger say 5, I guess, he took me to see the original "Frankenstein" movie. When I saw the monster, I tried to slip under the seat to avoid seeing the scene where he was tossing the little girl (dead presumbly) away from him. My papa just hauled me back to my seat and insisted that I witness everything. Even when I got over my scare later on a few weeks after, my father (to be funny, I guess) would stretch his neck out and strees the sterno-cleido muscles of his neck to look like Frankenstein. He did not mean to hurt me. He thought that by my facing the fearful and gruesome things that it would harden me to life's realities. Well, it accomplishe that but it also made me very sensitive to the pains of others to the point where I can burst out crying in empathy for the unfortunate victims, even when it's only an act in the movies or on TV. (I"ve gotten less sensitive, but I still cringe). Nonetheless, he did make me laugh (in retrospect, but not at the time) when one summer evening when I was about six, he took me for a walk in the warm sunset, the darkness of evening approaching. We walked by what I would later learn was the local dump. It was full of blazing red embers, from a fire started earlier on to burn the garbage, He said (in French) "See that? That's Hell!" I believed him. He grabbed my hand in his strong fist and said, quite calmly and without changing the tone of his voice: "See over there on the other side of the street: that's where Superman lives!" I believed him. While I was living in Canada at the time, my sister called me and said that papa was at the special care home, where he accepted that it would be better for him to be there. He was not ill, just getting weaker. He missed my mother who died about a year and a half before, so was a sadder papa now. One of the workers asked him if he was ready for lunch. He purportedly replied, "No, I think I'll pass today." When the orderly came back to check with Dad, he had died. His heart simply stopped. I cried but not as much as I did for mama, because papa did not affect me like that then. It was only later that I realized what gifts he had bestowed on me, even in his crass ways of his trying to breed in me a sense of wonder, and a respect for the hardships of life. I didn't even think of him as a hero until later in life. Everybody else did, however. I miss the old man, do you hear me papa - mon papa! .
