THOUGHTS OF DAD — Ringwood Family Tree

This picture was taken fairly early after our move to 124 Owasco St. Taken in the driveway “back out” area from the garage. Not sure who took it … likely Mom. No idea why. But I do recall it being taken.

It was a weekend. I was still a student at Holy Family … maybe around 6 or 7th grade. Dad had yard work on his mind and me to teach how to do it. The driveway back then was loose gravel. At ground level behind our feet is an old telephone pole. It divided the driveway from the yard. There were two other ones extending 90 degrees (from the ends of the other). It framed nicely the driveway “back out” area. Fun for kids to sit on, to walk on. Annually needing a fresh coat of white paint was never a fun chore for me.

Dad looks young and healthy. No hint yet that he would pass away at age 49. I am the oldest son as such, the first one next to him when it came time for projects, especially outside the house.

There I am. Not yet wearing glasses. At least a full foot shorter than Dad. The coat I am wearing I had seen and coveted. No doubt a birthday or Christmas gift. Brown suede with that clumpy filled loose material extending out into a collar. Loved that coat.

Mom saved the picture and gave it to me within my Michael photo book. I liked the picture initially because I remember it being taken. Later it tended to suggest to me that of the seven boys, I received the most of Dad. 25 years. Most of them when Dad was young and still healthy. It became the impetus for me to document THOUGHTS OF DAD. I was motivated to share these numerous thoughts with my brothers and sisters who did not enjoy the same volume of time with Dad.

However, as I dove into my memory bank, sorting out these thoughts within the context of Steel St. Owasco St, College, and Law School, it struck me that I might not have had Dad to myself anywhere near as much as I first thought. This realization became clearer as I continued back to those years commencing in 1971. He and mom dropped me off at Marquette University. Over those next and last eight years, Dad did not really loom large in my life as before. By no means did he ignore me. He was busy with six other sons and my three sisters. While I share this all so that you will now appreciate and understand our Dad more fully... my greater sense is that you will sit down in some quiet space, pen your own thoughts of Dad, and share them with all of us in this RFT. I think Mom would like it.

STEEL STREET

Dad was one month into his 26th year when I was born in 1953. That same year Queen Elizabeth II was crowned queen of England, the Korean War ended, the first polio vaccine was developed, gas cost $0.20 a gallon, transistor radios started to appear for sale, the average teacher earned $4,254 per year, Eisenhower became president, Playboy magazine issued its first publication, the Yankees won the World Series.

He died in 1978 one month shy of 50. That same year the Yankees won again, Anwar el-Sadat & Menachem Begin shared the Nobel Peace Prize, song of the year was “Just the Way You Are” by Billy Joel, the first cellular phone is put in use, gas costs $0.63 a gallon, average cost of a new house $54,800, first Test Tube Baby is born, Jimmy Carter was president. I was just shy of 26 … starting my final year of law school, three years married.

So, my time with Dad was 25+ years. Actual memories start a few years after 1953, but nevertheless in the 50s. I am a little boy. I am in a car. I am riding to our new house … 58 Steel St. Auburn NY. This is where my conscious awareness of Dad begins. Although it turned out to be exactly the opposite, my father was a tall man to my young eyes. But the rest never changed. He was good-looking, popular, loaded with social skills, well spoken, fun and funny, strong, well built (until the heart attack), athletic and confident.

Except for sports figures, there was only one person for me to look up to and I did, my Dad. I hoped to be like him. It was easy and fun to do in the early years, much more difficult in 11th - 12th grade. I learned, in part, that I needed distance in college to get out from under this ever-present shadow.

So, there I am living on Steel St. First son of an Auburn sports star, a United States Marine, and blossoming executive with Red Star Express Lines … Paul “Red” Ringwood.

In that setting, which included Kindergarten through 8th grade at Holy Family, the Y-field, the YMCA, and a number of summers at Guyder and Donovan's camp on Owasco Lake, my “Dad Time” exposures and influences were very little in terms of schooling or instruction. He left that to Mom or more so to the teachers. Quite honestly, I am certain that Dad (while plenty smart) was not really the greatest of students. His high school yearbook picture has him attending SU. That did not happen … Assumption College did. There is a letter I have, authored by Uncle Ed, recommending him for acceptance to Assumption. It is dated shortly after his graduation from high school! Then again … President of his graduating class at Assumption College.

My early exposures to Dad were almost exclusively in the context of just being with or near him. Did you know that if I misbehaved, I was physically disciplined only and always by Dad? Hard as it is to say, it included spankings and face slaps. Fortunately, not too many, but I knew what was coming when after work I could hear his feet walking upstairs to my room. It certainly happened the day I threw my cowboy boot right through my bedroom window!

My father allowed me to be with him. From that setting he taught me, over and over again. I walked next to him as he cut the grass. I could not wait until I was old enough to do that work. I was with him every step of the construction of “the wall,” watching and asking questions over and over. He taught me sports, first in the living room while watching television, explaining the rules of football, basketball and baseball. While there was some catch, throw, run, activity outside, he allowed me to learn the way he learned... playing those games with my peers in the neighborhood and then with my friends watching older local boys play at the Y field, and Pop Warner at the high school.

One little discovery triggered by this writing exercise, is the realization that Dad never remarked or mentioned much of anything about his own athletic exploits … until Owasco St. Somehow, I knew in those early Steel St. years, that sports had an importance. Watching the Giants play Cleveland in football, there in the living room, I knew that no team could defeat Jim Brown. Dad egged a bet out of me. I took the bet, certain I would fully protect my .25, and doubled it. I did not. He took my money! I could not believe it! My hands, over and into his, all the money to my name. I cried. Lesson learned. Never been much of a gambler since. I became a cautious person.

There I am walking in fields and forest one Sunday summer day. At the time I had not a clue that this wide open and partially wooded property, just south of Mary Street Ext., was owned by his father, our grandfather, Leo. It seemed so far away to me. We drove there. Dad was digging up small trees to replant on Steel St. I could hardly keep up with him. What might have been an hour or two of tramping about seemed like an eternity. He did not pick me up. He did not hold my hand. My mind fails to pull up any words spoken, just moments when he would crest a hill, not too many feet ahead of me, disappearing from view, and my fears that I would lose him. He dug up a good three to six trees, wrapped the roots, stuffed them into the trunk and we headed home. A lesson or two learned.

Steel St. is where I learned to ride a bike. Dad taught me. By that, I wish to convey that Dad took time to actually teach me. I was uncertain and cautious about the venture. All the older kids rode bikes. They were everywhere to be seen, especially the bike racks at the Y field. I wanted to ride but I was scared. No real reason, just scared I would not be able to stay upright, that I would crash, fall and that it would hurt. Bikes had recently arrived at our house, compliments of Uncle Ed and Aunt Alice from their home on Mary St. Three bikes, two full-sized, one smaller, no longer used by their daughters. Each one with first names printed on the front wheel fenders, Mary Alice, Peggy, and Kathy. I doubt that I thought much about the names printed on that front fender, as I was busy being too scared to ride.

These were beautiful bikes. Huge wide, white-walled tires. All were painted in azure blue. Two were full-sized with girl frames. They went to Nancy and Patty. I got the cool little one with Kathy prominently printed on the front Fender. (No idea why I never covered it over.)

But he taught me how to ride. Dad did it! He assured me I could do it. I always believed whatever Dad said. He took me out for a number of sessions after dinner. No training wheels, just Dad holding the bike steady, showing me how to mount, holding the back of my seat with his right hand while walking on my left side. Telling me how to peddle, how to steer, never letting me crash or fall. Never! Telling me to sense how it felt to push against the pedal, acceleration. Telling me how to break and the sensation of it. Over and over. The next day, the same thing, but he was walking faster next to my side. The following day the same but he seemed to be almost running. Why was that? I was no longer thinking in terms of fear. As the bike was parked for the evening (just left outside in the driveway until winter and then into the shed house), Dad said to me… “did you know that tonight I was not always holding the back of your seat?” I almost did not believe him. We were out again the next night. That evening he took me first through repeating drills of stopping / dismounting … by pushing me off with the pedals positioned for breaking whenever I chose to do so. It was easy after 4-5 tries. The remainder of the night was riding, knowing he would tell me when he was letting go. And he did! And I rode! And I did not fall! Lessons over, lessons learned. Fear was gone. I had my Kathy bike and later, for my 4th grade First Communion, a brand new, full-sized “Monarch” bike, (red in color) which I rode constantly until;

well into high school
to serve mass at Holy Family
to friends’ houses
to Y-Field and Benton St. playgrounds
to Auburn Golf and Country Club with clubs on my back
to the lake for Little League
to East High for Babe Ruth

Dad never really tucked me in or dressed me. I watched him shave and he explained why it was done and that I would need to learn it later in life. But Dad did take me out to bars and drinking establishments. At times with Nancy and Patty too. He did! He really did! At an adjacent to all the entries into the foot of Owasco Lake (Dauville) there were ramshackle beer & burger stands. Open air, stools for sitting and some with little play areas to the side for kids. There we were … kids playing to the side. Cars whizzing by. Dad and some guys drinking beer. Next stop home! Really!

In his original golf years at Auburn Golf & Country Club, Dad and his buddies were up early, and probably on a Saturday morning. Still dark out. Me in tow, no doubt the compromise to be able to play. We all piled into someone else’s car. I was the “faux” caddy. I was with my Dad and while I am certain we talked, about what, I do not remember. But I listened with ears tuned and eyes wide open. In retrospect that was the start of my education of and exposure to … “men talking to and interacting with other men.” I first heard the declarations “golf shot.” Dad explained. I heard the word “damn” quite a bit, mainly Mr. Scherrer, no apologies. No cursing worse than that. They seemed to make fun of each other, laughed with each other. I sat with them in the bar. Why were these burgers and fries so darn good? My god, there must have been at least five dollars in bills and change, getting pushed around between these guys. “No, take it. You won fair and square.” Heck … give it to me. That was fun, let them keep talking. I was allowed to practice putting on & around that soft front practice putting green. The painted white chain fence was there, and I practiced there also later while on the Mount Carmel Golf team – same white chain fence. (still there today.)

This is the late 50s or very early 60s. I know that Dad used a pull cart. The entire foursome did the same. No motorized carts. These were young men/fathers still in their 20s or early 30s. I can only remember (on those early weekend rounds) Mr. Leary and Mr. Gleason – but there had to be others. My recall of that course is fleeting. The first tee is exactly where it is today. Dad had a golf glove. Brown and tan, fully leather. No logos – but the ends of the four fingers tips were open. A collectible lost to time. His bag (no recall) except that – the wood covers, all four of them, were leather, matched the bag, and were strung together at the top by a leather string. Driver, 2-4 woods. Can’t recall the names or brand of the woods but believe they belonged to the late Jack Boyle. The irons were “Wilson” and I think Jack Ringwood still has them. I know his ball was a “DOT”. I still have one!

But from my little boy eyes, what I remember best, and oh so clearly, was the drive on the first hole when well struck. Its flight was amazing. Starting out low to the ground, staying that way for at least 50 yards. And, then … it rose up and into the air like a jet. “Golf shot Red”. The holes at AG&CC, to my young eyes … I retain a few memories. 2nd hole … long fairway with a huge downhill drop to the green. 3rd hole … the men’s tee was not yet pushed back. The 7th tee … with those persimmon drivers in use and the tree-lined left side, always a great cracking sound when driver and golf ball collided. Loved the sand traps on 8 and 9. They are still the same. Really! Back nine. 11th fairway, still the same. All the moguls! The men told me (actually it was Mr. Hogan) it was an Indian Buriel ground. I think they were kidding. The 12th hole, there was a different putting green than is currently present. It was fairly flat, framed by those similar to the front 9 holes. The putting green was back further up and into the current fairway. It would be a drivable hole today. The 18th hole seemed like the longest walk ever, and always into the wind.

I had no golf clubs of my own in those very early days. I practiced on my own, around about, and on the practice green at that course. Used Dad’s old brass square-toed putter and his 9 iron (no one had a wedge yet.) Really!

How about an embarrassing Michael story. Geez! I was just a little kid putting around AGCC while the men downed another beer. One day, with a nice greasy burger inside of me, as I practiced, the burger decided to move through me faster than I could react. Yup! I messed myself. YUCK. But there he was. My Dad to the rescue. Saw me, no doubt in tears. (I cried very easily back then.) I smelled bad for sure. But he held me, and safely moved me to the men’s room.

Speaking of cleaning me up. That was not the only time. I was out on the playground for recess at Holy Family (or shall I say the parking lot). Kids were everywhere. Sister Rosario (Rosie) rings her hand-held bell signaling not only the end of recess, but our need to line up military style, class by class, and ordered to then march back into the school. It must have been fall as there were leaf piles blown up near the back of the church. It must have previously rained. Those leaf piles were wet. With the others, I ran to the spot where my class was to line up. Never made it. Pushed hard from behind by Jim Nervina. Down I went … into the pile of wet leaves.

I know I was soaked. I know I was sobbing. Man, did I cry easily (still do). I know I just stood there. How he arrived so fast, I will never know. But there he is, Dad, in a dark raincoat, and dark fedora, carrying a new set of clothes for me. Cleaned me up, helped me change, and got me safely back into class. Obviously, Mom with no driver’s license or car, had called him.

STEEL STREET & SPORTS

More memories of my Dad. A fleeting one of him at the Y-field, in softball uniform and playing under the lights. I was there. Dad reacting to Arnold Palmer, on our B&W TV, knocking in long putts. Just Dad, alone in the living room with me, leaping from the couch when a long putt dropped. Really! I was right there. Dad taking me and Danny Donovan to watch the AHS Varsity play football at East High under the lights. Those high school football players were full gown men to my eyes. Push ahead about 10 years and Danny Donovan is the star running back for AHS playing under those same lights. But there we were, with Dad … and Dad knew every person there.

During the Steel St days, and after, I was enamored with some of his clothes ... and some of his personal possessions. There was his charcoal grey V-neck sweater. No idea why I like it. Too large for me to wear. For some reason I begged Mom, over and over, to promise that she was not just kidding when she would tell me, “Some day you will have a sweater just like it.” There were his wing-tipped dress shoes. Black pair, brown pair. Leather soles and leather uppers. Unbelievably heavy. I did not covet them until Owasco St. But at Steel St we loved trying to walk around in them. There was his Sunday mass prayer book. It was the perfect size. Not big and bulky, sized and shaped like a brick, as the women all seemed to have. His was beautiful black leather, much smaller in size and shape. This is what my Dad had. So, these are what I wanted. Eventually, I got all three.

Dad’s sports playing days quickly disappeared. No more softball under the Y-field lights. Just golf – Except – from time to time RED STAR fielded a softball team. I do not recall who they played … why or where. No uniforms. All I knew was me and Dad, off together in the car. Dad pulled up, parked, and marched immediately over to the bench for our team. He located the already prepared lineup sheet. Scratched out whoever was scheduled to pitch and entered his own name. I do not much remember the games, the play, or who won. I do remember that he pitched and no one on the team complained. Which, of course, meant to me that my Dad was the coolest of them all. The fun was post-game. We drove to someone else’s house. In the back yard the men all drank beer and talked. I had access to unlimited soda, and Dad nodded in approval when some of the other men would offer me cash to drop ice down the back shirt of some of the other men.

For quite a bit of time, I spent Saturday mornings at the YMCA. They had an annual Father-Son Day. Dad always came with me. To my amazed eyes, he was a really good swimmer, and he knew all the other fathers.

These Steel St days were wonderful because parents (mine included) allowed us to go out and play. The back yards were safe and not obstructed by fencing. The huge Y-Field playground down the street and the iron school bell which hung on our backyard tree (hanging for years in sister Teresa’s back yard and now residing with Kevin Hoercher in Vermont) when ringing, was our signal to come home for dinner.

OWASCO STREET

It was time to move to a bigger house, brother David was new to the family. Steel St was just too small. (Although, it had not bothered Tom and me that there was now a need for a baby and a crib in our room.) So, we moved to that 16 room, 3 bathroom house, with its backyard/front year/two side yards, and separate 2 story garage. 124 Owasco St, Auburn NY. For me, the move-in day was easy and fun. We all got up that morning on Steel St and went off to school. At the end of the school day, we traipsed to a new school bus pick-up location, hopped on and piled out at the intersection of Melrose and Owasco … a short 2-block run to our new home. The beginning of many new memories, and now more thoughts of Dad.

Allow me to continue with the clothing theme, recalling the charcoal grey V-neck sweaters and the leather wing-tipped from Steel St. In the later Steel St and early Owasco St days, male adult clothing had not much changed. Dark suit, white dress shirt, dart tie, dark rain jacket, black or brown fedora.

My first venture with Dad regarding clothing began in his bedroom closet. His rack of ties. Nothing else fit me yet. I was an altar boy, regularly serving Sunday and early am mass at Holy Family. Shirt, tie, dark slacks, and dark shoes to be worn under the required vestments (Roman style Cassock – red or black – with stiff white starched surplices). So, I needed to wear a tie. Dad allowed me to use some of his, provided it was timely returned to his closet. He taught me how to knot the tie. I’ve worn them that way ever since.

As I grew (never fast enough relative to my peers) men’s fashion changed. Ties became excessively wide and colorful. Colors and patterns took over pants, sport jackets, belts, shirts, and suits. Fedoras disappeared. Hair grew long. Dad became quite a clothes hound, and I was anxious to follow. At times borrowing, and eventually collecting, my own wardrobe of perceived significance during my high school years.

In grade school at Holy Family, our uniform required a white shirt and tie. Private catholic high school – Mount Carmel – required slacks, sports coat, or suit, with shirts and tie (detention if you forgot coat or tie). Dad helped me pick out a new suit my first year of high school along with brown wing-tipped shoes … worn for the freshman prom. During my junior year of high school, and as my birthday gift, Dad personally drove me downtown to Marshalls. The well regarded men and boys clothing store. There were racks and racks of beautiful looking and feeling suites. At that time, I was all about a blue, double breasted, pin-striped suit. There it was. I almost did not ask if I could try it on because I could see the price tag. But Dad did not hesitate upon seeing it on me. He ordered it fitted and we had a great time (along with staff) as they chalked it up for tailoring. I could hardly believe how lucky I was (not realizing that Mom would be the one to get the bill and deal with arranging payment.) From Marshalls, Dad drove me to a dance at the high school and I told all my fiends about the purchase. No one at Mount Carmel had a suit as nice as mine. I wore it to the junior prom with Marylou Daly, along with a lavender shirt, and a very cool tie purchased from Hislops.

More on clothing. During those high school years, Dad made it a point to pick out and purchase a clothing item just for me every Christmas … one time a cream colored V-neck, another time a multicolored striped button-down oxford dress shirt. Even the packaging for it was cool. These purchases were wonderful, but it was all so much more than the articles of clothing. It was that my Dad found the time and picked them out just for me.

Dad was a “salesman.” That is how the bills were paid. He was up every morning and out the door to call on “customers” within the local geography that he covered. There was a time when his arrival home every Friday was anticipated a bit more than the rest of that work week. We were usually all playing outside when his car pulled up and into the driveway. What a sight it was when he pulled himself out of the front seat, arms loaded with multiple white-string-tied boxes and white waxed bags filled with fresh baked goods! What a great father! It should also be said that he liked his candy, and we could always find some in his car by pushing our hands down between the driver seat and seat back.

It seems as if there was always a clothing connection with my Dad even past high school while I studied at Marquette University. Once, while at home between semesters or summer break, I noticed that Dad was sporting a pair of white bucks. I knew instantly that I liked them and probably commented that I might have to get me a pair someday. No need to wait. He stopped, took them off, “they’re yours.” I was so surprised … but I darn well took them! He did the same with a long (below the knee) large pocketed “stadium-type” coat. Just took it off and handed it to me. The jacket spent two years with me at Marquette. Loved it! Loved how it came to me, just like the white bucks, almost as if he viewed it as an opportunity.

As I piece together my thoughts of Dad, over the Owasco St years, I have had a small but interesting epiphany. That my special and concentrated time with the man was different. It was changing. Oddly, that little revelation made me feel much better, especially with my younger brothers. I was getting older, I needed less and less attention. He was turning that attention to six other boys (who probably have their own unique thoughts of Dad).

Dad and me … (with substantial help from Jimmy Duffy) re-roofing the garage. (Pretty sure there is some video.)
Dad and me … (with substantial help from Jack Hogan since he had power tools) fixing the bathroom door near their room to open and close smoothly.
Dad and me … (soon thereafter Tom, Jack, and me) raking the driveway stones, painting the telephone poles and rocks (which lined the driveway) and shoveling snow.

Dad and me … attempting to paint the driveway side of the house to no avail. Bad paint. Wonder where that came from? No doubt lost items at Red Star.
Dad and me … Sports reigned on Owasco St. The side yard was large enough for baseball, wiffleball, football, kickball, and full golf swings with pinecones. This is when the world of Pony League, Little League and Babe Ruth unfolded, along with more interaction with Dad.

Dad and me … He was assistant coach for my first year of Pony League. I rode the bench. This is when I began to develop quite a bit of anxiety knowing of his days as quite the star athlete. Always wondering if I could live up to it. More often than not, doubting it.

Dad and me … But Dad never once put an ounce of achievement pressure on me. He did the best thing a Dad could do, he played catch with me. Why he did not coach after that, I assume it was work related. Unable to get to the afternoon practices. But he was there for most games, and I blossomed into a good player … into Little League and Babe Ruth. Dad and me … I well recall, and always will, my last Babe Ruth game (last organized baseball I ever played). At that time, my brothers were on teams so which parent attended the game was a constant juggle. Given all my Dad time during Pony League and Little League, it was not unusual for neither parent to be at a Babe Ruth event. But for the very last game (playoffs … Byrnes Sporting Goods vs Fire Fighters -my brother Tom on that opposition team) Dad was in attendance. His attire was unique. Having arrived home from work, everything came off other than the dress shirt and his leather work loafers. He teamed them up with Bermuda shorts with shirt untucked. He stood on the berm above the bleachers, change always jangling in his pocket, chatting with the other men. I was playing short stop and actually recall looking up to my right and watching him. This might be one of my most treasured thoughts of the man. Last inning. We are leading, but not by much. There were two outs. Fire Fighters are batting with a man on second base. Joe Polito is pitching for us. My white with red-striped uniform is filthy. I had the genius idea to refuse to allow it to be cleaned all season. Michael Catalfano, a high school friend, is up to bat. He never strikes out. He almost always hits it in my direction at shortstop and always hits it very hard. No one in the county runs the bases as fast as Catalfano. For some reason, I am seasoned enough to know all of this and be on my toes for this batter. Sure enough, he cracked a hard grounder between me and our 3rd baseman. It is my play to make, and it unfolds in but a second or two. I need to move my gloved left, hand across my body to my right, and reach out to the ball. Somehow, I got the glove into the ideal position. The ball was moving fast. I felt it hit and strike in the pocket of my glove causing me to register a level of pleasure and surprise, only to realize that currently out of my view, Michael Catalfano was flying up the first baseline. Once again, no real time to think, to act, or to look around. Move ball from glove to throwing hand, while turning left to turn to throw. He is out! We won the playoffs. Then it happens. I turn to my right to head back to the bench and savor the victory. But Dad is right there in front of me. He ran down the berm, out onto the field, and grabbed my hand in congratulations. The first to get to me. I will always treasure the memory. My Dad was proud of me.

Basketball was another story. Dad actually coached the Holy Family 8th grade team when I was a high school freshman, not sure how or why he was able to pull it off, but he did. Looming in my mind back then were the many photos of Dad as a basketball player gracing my bedroom. A little more anxiety. I practiced and practiced but never really got a serious look by the coaches, as far back as 7th and 8th grade, so Dad watched me ride the bench and I gave it up after one year of high school play.

Once, in 8th grade, Dad brought Mr. Scherrer to watch my Holy Family team. I was hell bent to do something for the few minutes I would get of playing time, whenever on defense and the opposing team took a shot, I decided I was not going to wait and see the outcome of that shot, I would start running toward the basket at the opposite side of the court, hoping we rebounded, and hoping they saw me down the court wide open. Son of a gun … it worked. Long pass to me. Dad and Mr. Scherrer watching, and I miss. I missed an uncontested layup. But Dad made no comment on it at all

Football was a similar story. I was small. It did not want to play Pop Warner with Uncle Don as the coach. My career on the grid iron was short and sweet. Signed up late to play on the freshman team at Mount Carmel. Literally swam in the uniform. Shortly into the season, fractured my elbow. Season over. Signed up again during my Sophomore year and fell in love with the game. Played defense as a roving linebacker, covering the flats on either side of the line.

Dad saw me make an open field tackle on my own and congratulated me. I had no idea he had been there in the crowd watching.
Dad was present again when I intercepted a pass.
Dad and me again. Dad took Tom and I to the “HOT STOVE” sports dinner at the Auburn Inn, for the start of my first year at Mount Carmel. It independently provided me with a fun and personal memory. This dinner was designed to introduce the high school Varsity football team for the upcoming season. I was on the Freshman team (not yet having dislocated my left elbow). Best retrospective guess is that Dad may have been recalling his own football-glory days. In any event, there we were. Consider this very interesting setting. Male attendees only! Except that the female Mount Carmel students were encouraged to serve the meal and clear the tables! Patty Gallaro was serving ours and nearby tables. Patty had been in all my classes at Holy Family. She too was a freshman at Mount Carmel. Smart, popular, and pretty. I had been secretly smitten with her since kindergarten. Really! At some point during the dinner, probably while they were clearing dishes, Patty walked over … said “hi” … and sat herself down right on my lap. I could not believe it. She chatted with me. She chatted with Dad. Tom’s eyes were wide open with surprise, and I felt for one of the first times in my life quite good about myself.

That was enough football for me. As good as I felt, and as well as I felt I was performing, I was also attending appointments with the ear doctor in Syracuse missing practices from time to time. Each time I missed a practice, I was not allowed to play in the game that week. No warning, no explanation. Enough of that coaching nonsense. My sport had become golf and my golf gave me wonderful exposure to Dad. This time and through the Skaneateles Country Club, and numerous other golf settings. I quietly bonded in time with Dad via the sport of golf.

Dad picked out and bought me my first set of clubs. Used, from Larry Bartosek (head pro at Skaneateles Country Club). The irons were “Wilson Blue Ridge” (with a missing 7 iron).

Dad bought me my first pitching wedge. Picked it out himself, another Christmas gift. I was in 7th grade. Too bad it was a “Patty Berg” model … but I played it well.

Dad picked out and purchased for me from Nolan’s Sporting Goods, my first golf bag. A Scottish plaid one … a Christmas gift.

Dad gave me time to be exposed to the game fully by caddying for him, and soon thereafter, other club members every weekend. With him and because of him, I learned the rules and was well regarded as a caddy. But best was the drive to Skaneateles each weekend, just me and Dad. I had $5 in my pocket from looping, a pocket full of golf balls, and the last swig of beer from the glass that he brought out from the Men’s Only Grill. He always parked in an area near the first tee; the three parking spots are long gone but there were a few small trees lining that area. Dad always stuck the glass in one of those trees.

Dad took me to play in the Cazenovia Country Club Father-Son Golf Tournament for about three years. We joined Carlyle and Larry Smith each time. More great fun. More great car time together.

I used to prowl the Pro Shop at Skaneateles Country Club looking at the golf clothing, clubs, and balls. This was while Dad lunched with his buddies in the Men’s Only Grill for quite a bit of time. I had my eyes on a brand new shiny silver “Arnold Palmer” putter. This time I made it a point to be seen by him practicing with it on the pro shop carpet. Yep, he took one look at me and said, “It’s yours”. Another bill for Mom to deal with.

He did the same thing the summer before my junior year of high school. This time it was a beautiful pair of white leather golf shoes. They did not have the traditional tie up and flap cover. These were a new style … fold across leather fingers with metal buckles. I kept and wore those shoes into and after law school.

As I got older (junior/senior high school), better as a golfer and well aware of the rules and protocol, there was more of me and my Dad.

At the Mount Carmel fundraiser bazaar one year, there was a hole-in-one challenge set up. About a 70 yard shot to a cup stuck in the group with a buzzer at the bottom of the cup to activate were a person to get an ace. The shot was quite impossible because the terrain to and around the cup was terrible, the ball rolled and bounced. There I am watching people putting their dollar down and then taking their four shots. No one was getting it close. Dad pushed me out to give it a try. I could tell he did it because he was proud. He tossed a $5 down. 20 balls! A big crowd watching. Plenty of oooohs and aaahs. No aces, but when I finished there were 5 ball within a foot or two near the cup, and a big grin on Dad’s face.

From time to time, I was allowed to play in Dad’s weekend foursome. Usually when they were unable to fill an opening in that foursome. When I outdrove Gary Mauer, all the men razzed him to death. Dad did that for me.

One year, when my golf game was starting to shine, Dad consciously “loaned me” to George Scherrer for the Father-Son tournament at Skaneateles Country Club. Mr. Scherrer did not have sons old enough to play at that time. I am also quite certain that Dad thought Mr. Scherrer and I had a chance to win. We won, but I felt a bit odd about it. Dad played a bit with the younger boys.

The next year I played exclusively with Dad. We played well and our best ball finish was as follows:

14th (par 4): double bogey as we both went OB off the tee

15th (par 4): birdie as Dad “fluffed” his 5 wood to within 2 feet

16th (par 4): yours truly stiffed a wedge (might have been my Patty Berg) for another birdie

17th (par 4): Dad and I both burned the cup with birdie attempts, settling for a par

18th (par 4): stuck my second shot in close and make the birdie putt

We won! We did it together. Dad and me. No better a trophy.

There was always golf but not much played with Dad once my time for college arrived … expect for 2 memorable instances. Dad took me out to play at Skaneateles Country Club … just the two of us near the end of summer 1971. I was soon to start college at Marquette University in Wisconsin. There was precious little golf for me until I finished law school. That time in 1971 was wonderful. Earlier that year, I was named MVP as a member of the City-County Championship Auburn High golf team. (I will have to check but am pretty sure Dad won the Skaneateles Club Championship that year). He just wanted a little last time with me and chose the golf course. I do not remember any exact words exchanged. I do remember having my first best chance at an eagle (great drive on hole 14, 3 iron onto the green in two, just missing a 10 footer for eagle). But no matter, it was just me and Dad. Last ride to and from the golf course along with him in his company card. I know I shared a beer with him in the Men’s Grill that afternoon. Not bad for a still 17 year old kid … soon to be off on this own.

The last round of golf was in 1978. Skaneateles Country Club. Father-Son Tournament. 7 sons and Dad. Two full foursomes, Jack Paul David and I played together, and Dad played with Tom, Peter, and Robert. There are a few pictures. As I left the putting green #2 and started to cross over to #3, I saw that Dad and the other three were teeing off close by on #14 (formerly #12). I know a photo was taken (now lost to time) Peter is on his downswing and Dad is right there watching him closely providing those boys with thoughts of their Dad. Not too many weeks later Dad was gone.

I will leave all the readers with this last thought…

Advice from Dad to me. I was filling out paperwork for Marquette University; it had to have been summer 1971. The paper required me to declare my major. I had no idea. Honestly, I would soon be heading off to a major Jesuit college and I had no idea of what I wanted to study. So, I wandered into the den to find Dad. He was painting. Asking him what I should enter for my major, he responded immediately and with absolute certainty …

“Fill out your major to be English. You can figure it out later and change it at that time.”

I did just that.

I did figure it out and changed it.

It worked out very nicely.

Thanks Dad. Thanks for everything.

Mike