Not Always in the Cards

My father died suddenly 20 years ago this month and I still get the twinges.

One will hit me if I hear a certain song that I know he liked or played as a musician. Most often, though, I risk a twinge when I'm in a card store, trying to find one with a message that works for the intended recipient, and I happen to spot the card-stuffed slots marked "Father."

Nope. Not for me. Not anymore.

For all the things that changed the day my father died, my buying of greeting cards was altered forever in a way that conjures up that old song "There's Always Something There to Remind Me" (the Sandie Shaw version).

So, there I'll stand, with a twinge of remembrance and regret.

I have some great memories of my father. I remember being a little kid and sometimes waiting on Queens Boulevard by the subway station in the evening until he surfaced, so that we could walk home together.

One of my favorite father-and-son memories has to do with baseball --- the night in 1969 when we were at Shea Stadium as the Mets beat the St. Louis Cardinals to clinch the division title on their way to winning the National League pennant and, ultimately, the World Series. Amazin'!

I remember, too, my dad's side job as the tuxedo-wearing leader of the Bob Mitchell Orchestra, playing weddings and church affairs. As one of the kids who picked up a guitar (didn't everyone?) after the Beatles hit it big, I was in a rock group. And since my father refused to play rock, he'd bring us along to play while his band was on its break.

But my dad and I did not always get along and some disagreements were worse than others. In particular, there were those bitter arguments at the dinner table, during the height of the Vietnam War.

We were on opposite sides, followers of different leaders: My father had served under General Patton in World War II; I sat in the street behind Shirley MacLaine in a quest for peace.

As might be expected, there was never a winner in our war of words --- only the knowledge that we made a good team in bringing my mother to tears.

"Can't we just have dinner once without an argument?" she would cry.

Of course, that would shut us up --- until the next time.

Fortunately, my father and I grew to become more agreeable, even if it wasn't an easy process. My last memory of him is that we had just spent a good time together at a wedding reception. When it ended, we parted with a handshake, a hug and a sincere "I'll talk to you," even if we didn't.

I have known people who were on the outs with a parent or sibling when the harsh truth that we all get to answer to mortality suddenly hit them upside the head. Well, if I am grateful for anything, it's that I've missed out on that kind of haunting.

Knowing that wasn't in the cards, I've learned to live with the twinges.