Most of my friends and readers know that I’m adopted.

Some have taken the time to read my various blogs about finding my biological mom (NOT a good ending, unfortunately) and finding my biological dad (well, at least he didn’t send his lawyer after me!). If you’ve stuck with me through these very personal stories, I thank you!

And if you read a copy of my recently published book, Caring for Mom and Other Loved Souls, I also thank you! And if you actually took the time to leave a review for the book, I applaud you for supporting a first-time book author. I know it might not be easy reading a memoir about a 93-year old’s end of life… especially someone you likely didn’t know. But it was a story I had to tell, about my “mom” (my adoptive mom who raised me and who I view as my true parent). And I’m more than thrilled that it is done and out there.

This past month my Uncle Joe passed away at the amazing age of 95. My father’s brother (again, I know it’s confusing, but I’m talking about my adoptive father, Ed, who raised me, and who I view as my real father). Here’s a photo of my Uncle Joe (from left to right), Aunt Helen and my parents, from my wedding in 1987.

My Uncle Joe’s death brought up a lot of memories about my father. Joe was my dad’s younger brother although Joe outlived my dad by 33 years. My dad passed away at the age of 68, decades ago. He was robbed of so many good years. My two sons never knew him, an enduring sadness for me.

My sons (both in their early 30’s now) learned a lot about my mom from my book, maybe more than they wanted to know in some ways. They also lived with her for 9 years in our home. They played with her (ganging up against me at times), loved her, and learned a lot about living with an elderly person; something I think will serve them well in life. They have dozens of photo albums and home videos showing them with their “Granny.” They have so many memories of her on Christmas mornings, Thanksgivings, Easter egg hunts, birthday celebrations and the like. Plus, they have their own individual recollections of numerous hugs and snuggles with her throughout the years she lived with us, and even before.

They don’t have any of that, however, relating to my dad, their “Papa,” as he was called by my older brother’s older kids. My dad died when my older son was just a toddler (and Dad was in a nursing home for most of their very limited time together). My younger son wasn’t even born yet. Sure, they’ve heard stories of their Papa over the years, but it is hard for stories to stick when a child hasn’t even met the individual the story is about.

So, I decided to write down some thoughts about my sons’ Papa.

He was such a wonderful father and provider for our family. He would have been a fun and attentive grandfather as well. He was incredibly smart and wise. He was very sure of himself, and also very opinionated. One of his favorite sayings was, “You’re entitled to your own opinion, no matter how wrong it is.”  LOL. The thing is, he was usually spot-on with his opinions.

Most of the important principles I have embraced throughout my life are likely “inherited” from my dad. Watching him, being loved by him, being scolded by him, and simply listening to his many gems of wisdom. I hear his voice of reason sometimes when I am talking (or opinionating!). I can see his DNA in many of my traits and behaviors, even though we don’t share a single gene.

For him, one of the most important things in life and relationships was respect. To give it and to gain it. My dad had great respect for his religion, his government, his country, and for the people in his life. Character was everything to him: honesty, honor, and loyalty. In marriage, as an employee, as a friend… you couldn’t have asked for someone more faithful, and true to his word.

He didn’t have a formal education beyond high school, but he continually strived to learn. He went into the Coast Guard and was trained as a Radioman. In 1943, his ship, the USCGC Mojave (WPG-47), was actively deployed with the Greenland Patrol, a critical U.S. Coast Guard operation in the Arctic during World War II.

The Mojave spent the war years conducting anti-submarine warfare, convoy escort, and rescue operations in the cold, dangerous waters of the North Atlantic and around Greenland. I still have a certificate he was presented for surviving the treacherous waters of the Arctic Circle.

It was during the war he met my mom at a USO Club at the Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina. She said she fell for him because he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He also had the gift of gab. Mom used to say Dad had “the gift of blarney” which had attracted her to the young Coast Guardsman.

When the war ended, dad returned to work at the Boston Navy Yard, visiting Mom when he could. They had decided they’d marry by this point, the question was when and where. I know they didn’t have a lot of money, which was probably one of the reasons they got married when they did versus having a prolonged engagement. Back then, living separately meant two rental expenses… but once married they could share expenses. They used to talk about that, how little they had back then. But they had each other.

Their wedding in 1946 was a very small and simple ceremony with a few local family members. Their big splurge (as Mom later wrote in a letter to her own mom, who couldn’t attend) was each buying a new suit for the occasion. They couldn’t afford a honeymoon so basically went back to work the next day.

They eventually decided to look for new job opportunities out West and moved to California in 1952, initially ending up in South San Francisco, and then Sunnyvale (where they lived until Dad’s passing in 1993). To make the move they drove across country lugging a homemade trailer with their few possessions.

That trailer broke down in Arkansas. Fortunately, my dad was a mechanic and could fix it as they didn’t have much of a nest-egg saved up. In that trailer they had a roll-away bed and little else. And if the broken-down trailer wasn’t a set-back, once they arrived in California Dad had an appendicitis attack. Perhaps not the greatest welcome to their new life so far from home and most of their family.

He was a union man, working for 31 years as a jet mechanic for TWA in South San Francisco, retiring in 1984. He took great care in his job, always opting in to any available training and special projects, leading him to become a Lead Mechanic. He often expressed that his upper management was “misinformed”, as he saw it (did I mention he was opinionated?). So, he constantly put forth ideas and suggestions to management to improve the efficiency and safety of his work environment. I’ve seen a few “atta-boy” type letters he received for some of his ideas that were implemented. This was pre-OSHA days so unfortunately many of his ideas for safety were not implemented. Years and then decades later we’d learn that most of his crew had health issues (many dying quite young like he did) likely due to the toxins they were exposed to while working with the jet fuels and solvents, including asbestos-containing materials and jet exhaust.

He worked really hard and took on a lot of overtime shifts to bring home some additional income. I can still recall him showing up late at night after an overtime shift. He’d be wearing his overalls that would look almost solid black from all the grease, exhaust and other chemicals. Those would have to be washed almost daily. On top of long work days he drove an hour to and from work each day. In 1960 he was promoted to Temporary Foreman and made a whopping $3.50 an hour. Can you imagine that! The breadwinner for a family of four. He was very proud of that accomplishment and the fact he bought—and later fully paid off—the family home on his salary.

Back then, the mechanic’s union went out on strike a lot and Dad would faithfully go walk the picket line, even in the pouring rain. He was a loyal union man who would never cross a picket line, “even one for striking pilots” (he’d say with a laugh). I remember there were a few lean times at our house when he was out on strike for a lengthier period of time.

He used to say, “Send me a man who reads” (a quote which actually originated in an International Paper ad in the 60s, implying a man who reads would be a good hire) as he felt ignorance was something not to be tolerated. It wasn’t that he looked down on someone who wasn’t formally educated (I mean, he was not). He did feel, however, that anyone could be a life-long learner, adaptable, and fully capable of teaching themselves new skills and knowledge. Every month he would learn the new vocabulary words in the Readers Digest (It Pays to Increase Your Word Power was the name of the section). We’d have weekly spelling contests, sometimes at dinnertime. I still remember the ONE time I beat him at spelling with the word, “connoisseur.” I’m still very impressed when I think about it. A man with a high-school education out-spelling his college-educated daughter.

I still quote my father today, without even realizing it. One of his favorite sayings that I’ve used many times throughout my life, “Paper never forgets.”  Another one he often used, was, “Actions speak louder than words.” And isn’t that so very true? (and don’t you wish people on social media would do more than just complain?)

Along with improving his vocabulary he focused on continually improving his mechanical skills. He did all of our household repairs and serviced all of the family cars throughout my life, and would help neighbors with their vehicles and household repairs as well. He got great pleasure out of being able to figure things out and loved to save on repair costs as well. This was all pre-internet, folks, so he didn’t have DIY videos to watch. He didn’t have product user manuals online. He couldn’t do a google search on helpful hints at fixing a given item. Sure, he’d read any available product information (and he faithfully kept all of that) but bottom line is he’d tinker and just try to figure things out. He collected a staggering number of tools over the years. He serviced my first car, a Capri, which got very flaky in its later years. He would kludge things together based on his airplane knowledge, but most of the time it would resolve the problem. Later, mechanics who would see the kludges were fascinated and impressed!

He was known to be frugal, just like my mom. Along with all of his overtime, we clipped coupons, went to rummage sales for clothing and other household goods, and rarely went on vacations. I do recall a trip to Disneyland, however, when I was young. What a treat that was! My dad would buy savings bonds out of every paycheck which later served my mom well in the years after he had passed away. He collected Liberty Head dimes his entire adult life, not so much as a hobby but he viewed it as an investment.

The Great Depression was a huge influence on Dad. He was born in 1925 and experienced the depression’s effects on his family during his early childhood. I grew up hearing a lot of “Depression-related” stories about the importance of saving one’s pennies, both helping and leaning on family, and the importance of being “scrappy”. My dad was definitely scrappy. I heard a lot about saving one’s money and doing with less. I recall Dad buying a simple Kleenex box for his mom one year as a Christmas gift, as it was all he could afford. I would definitely say I inherited his frugality, and that has served me well throughout my life, especially in lean times (such as when I was in college and pretty much broke most of the time).

My dad was Mr. Efficiency. He would become laser-focused on projects and get them done, usually in record time. He strongly believed in “an ounce of prevention”, for sure. Everything in our home was beautifully and routinely maintained. But he tended to other things as well. His health (he played tennis, didn’t drink or smoke…), his friendships, our neighborhood, and extended family.

In particular, family was very important to him. I don’t know how he felt when he and Mom learned they couldn’t have kids. I never really asked him or her about the emotional side of having to adopt. I just knew early-on that I had been adopted. One day my parents had told me they took a shopping cart to the adoption place and specifically picked me out; so I always thought adoption was a positive as I had been selected unlike babies who just came. I’ve always said that I couldn’t have had better or more loving parents.

He was Irish and had the gift of gab and humor—and could sing and do a jig as well. I vaguely remember being taught the jig in my youth. He was a superb dancer (of all styles of dance) and my parents routinely went square-dancing and were members of a square-dancing club. Due to MY inability and comfort level to gracefully slow-dance, we practiced ballroom dancing in my parents’ living room in preparation for the father/daughter dance at my wedding… I have that wedding dance on video and cherish it.

He had just retired when he became ill and within a few years he was gone. Before he became sick he’d often say that getting old wasn’t for the weak-minded, as he saw what others older than him had to sometimes deal with health-wise. When he himself became ill, I think it was overwhelming for him, something he had never expected would happen to him. My mom was older than Dad and appeared to be on the frail side, so most people would have likely presumed she would have health issues before my dad, if they’d thought about it. That’s what she had thought, too, that he would outlive her. His health declining so abruptly—at such a young age—never seemed to make sense; it certainly never felt “fair.”

He had a grueling ending in a nursing home, something that I wish he hadn’t had to experience. His brother Joe was one of the last relatives to see him (traveling to California from Massachusetts) and I know they enjoyed that final time together. They sang and spoke of the family members who were no longer with them. I know it was a sad goodbye for both of them as by that time we knew Dad wasn’t going to get any better.

Dad didn’t have a lot of dignity at the end, and that had been important to him, so again, a terrible end for a wonderful man. But one of the final lessons I learned from my dad’s end-of-life was that life isn’t always fair. And that sometimes it is downright cruel.

I wish my two sons could have known him, and learned from him. Had he lived longer, I’m sure he would have had many opinions about emerging technology like the internet, and so much more. I would have liked to hear those opinions. And I would have loved my sons to have been able to hug and know him, like they were able to with my mom.

I’m sure Dad greeted Uncle Joe at Heaven’s gate… probably eager to have a new pair of ears to listen to his jokes and songs. I like to think they are all up there together… enjoying each other’s company, telling stories, and proudly watching their remaining family getting on so well in the world.

Thinking of you today, Dad. Love you.

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