MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Cherished memories of father My father will be 83 in September, but he will never see that birthday. As I sat next to him today, watching him try his hardest to eat a tiny square of pizza, I realized I might have been looking at him for the last time. When I left, it was awkward. I had so much to say, but I didn’t know how to say it. So I gave him a long hug, and whispered, “You’re the best.” And he is. My father taught me so much, and he didn’t even realize it. He taught me to be friendly. Whenever I chat with strangers, my kids ask, “Mom, do you know them?” which is something I probably asked of my father more than a few times. Everyone was interesting to the man. I especially enjoyed watching him turn an elevator full of strangers into a two-minute party. He taught me altruism. I remember driving around the neighborhood for days after Hurricane Betsy, collecting clothes for distribution to flood victims. He organized the whole family and got some of the neighbors to help. He taught me to be involved. Every year at the school fair, my father ran the beer booth. We thought he did this because he wanted to help the school, but he continued running the beer booth at the parish fair long after all of us had moved on. It was then that we realized that he did it because he had fun. And I do, too, in my own booth at our school fair. He taught me selflessness and humility. The humility part didn’t take too well, but his lessons in selflessness were legion. He was always there for us. Whether it was driving us somewhere, helping us with homework, or supporting some Scout function, we could always count on my dad. He taught me, or tried to teach me, to be calm in a storm. There was one particular moment I remember well. It was teen time, and there was some crisis. I had failed at something, and was absolutely distraught, sprawled on my bed in tears. My father stopped whatever he was doing and laid down beside me, holding and comforting me. I don’t remember what triggered the incident, but I’ll never forget my father’s gentle, soothing care. My father taught us self-reliance. He was the quintessential do-it-yourselfer. My father innately knew how to do anything. He fixed his own cars, renovated his own house, upholstered his own chairs and sewed pearls on my wedding veil. My husband is not happy he taught me any of that. My father taught us to value education. He had to leave school to help support his family, so he educated himself in higher learning. He was always expanding his vocabulary, doing mental exercises and reading. He encouraged me to be more scholarly than I was, which wouldn’t have taken much. His sage advice plays in my head as I now repeat it to my own son, “The time will pass anyway, you really ought to apply yourself better.” This lesson stuck about as well as the one on humility. And my father taught us whimsy. He was a salesman who traveled occasionally, and whenever he returned we always knew to expect Sno-Caps, the nonpareil candies in the box with the window. This, I’m sure, is one of the fondest memories my siblings and I will have of him. My father did not only teach us. I believe he taught, in a small way, many of the people whose paths he crossed. The ladies who left the elevator laughing, his co-workers who looked forward to his cheerful greetings each morning, the people who passed as he hoisted his flag everyday. Even the clients who never bought a thing from him. My father treated others with kindness and respect. He always talked straight and truthful. My father loved life. He loved his family, his country and his God. And now, it is time for God to welcome him. My father is finished teaching me. I know, though, that he’ll continue looking after me from his new home. Thank you, Daddy-O. I love you. MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column every Saturday for L’Observateur.