Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again

                                                               

So my Dad...
Don't know why , but one of my strongest memories of my Dad is one word he once said to me..but I'll get to that in a minute.

First let me draw you a little picture of my Dad. Dad was a big man in every way...big build, big personality, big presence, big heart. Everyone knew my Dad. As a kid, everywhere we went (and I do mean everywhere) people would know him. Still happens, although less so now than when he was alive...but it was maybe about a month ago it happened again. It's always the same thing..."You're Wilbur's boy? I knew your Dad. How's you Mom ?" ..and then usually some anecdote about a memory of him and how he somehow fit into their life. Always something nice and usually something that resonated with that person to keep it as a memory. What a great legacy to leave. Would be proud to leave that as a legacy myself, but I've got a ways to go to achieve that, methinks.

I always saw Dad as a leader, the center of his large group of friends. Sort of the Frank Sinatra to his own extended Rat Pack. Or maybe more so like John Wayne...always a twinkle behind that solid exterior. Dad was cool without truly knowing what cool meant. But then again, maybe he did know all along, either way..absolutely someone to emulate, someone you were happy to have known, someone you are proud to have crossed paths with.

One thing Dad rarely showed was his temper. I remember one time playing pass with him in the back yard. Must have been about this time of the year, because if I recall correctly, an errant throw by son number three (me) bypassed my intended target (Dad) and instead went through three storm windows that were leaning against the house. Don't remember anything else about that, but I'm sure if Dad had a negative reaction I would have.

One time I do remember Dad getting mad was this....(once again a little back ground is needed).

Dad was many things, but one thing that he definitely was not, was mechanically inclined (which , by the way, he did pass down to me - thanks Dad), but he did somehow have every conceivable tool known to man either in the garage or in the basement. This was probably because whenever something needed to be fixed , it was always one of Dad's friends that came over to do it, and I guess in my father's mind the proper protocol in that situation was, "If they're doing it for you, the least you can do it have the right tools ready for them".

So back to the time I remember Dad getting mad involved him replacing a toilet seat. Now we've all (even me) replaced toilet seats, right ? Loosen the two screws that hold the bolts that attach the seat to the toilet, lift off the old seat, put on the new one, and attach the screws. Voila', you're sitting pretty again, (so to speak). Well somehow to Dad that job ended up needing a screwdriver and a hammer, with the act of chiseling taking place. Picture, if you will, a Screwdriver being pounded by a hammer as a chisel directly into porcelain. Not sure but I'll bet it wasn't much past the first or second "thwack" when Dad split the toilet bowl...not in two, but more like in four. I remember Dad's face turning a shade of red that Sherman Williams would market as "Incensed Wilbur". He started to storm around the house swinging that screwdriver and hammer like the God of Thunder. I was afraid they might have found their way through the bathroom door the same way Rico Petrocelli's throw in the back yard found it's way through the storm windows. I think of this exact scenario EVERY SINGLE TIME  I use a tool. To this day. I truly do.

So, back to that word.

Picture an honor role student, bringing home his first progress report indicating a failing grade. The honor role student was me, in case I needed to clarify, and home was where I was living at the time, in case I needed to clarify even further. (and if that is the case, please stop reading this blog now and go back to brushing up on your 5th grade English class). I don't recall the year (although it may have been 8th grade)...don't even recall the teacher or course...although Mrs. Hladke and German (German, why the f*#% German - that got me far) are a distinct possibility.

Dad , upon seeing this shocking turn of events from his most scholarly of all four of his kids (don't deny it) uttered the phrase that contained the word that I will always remember...

"Pete, you better get on the titstick"

That's it. Titstick.

Don't know what a (or the) titstick is. But I got the message and I got on it.

I've actually used that same word , in similar situations, and no one has ever questioned it, and the point has always gotten through.

So do me a favor, if you ever are in a situation when you can use the word titstick, please do so, and think of my Dad.

peace and love