My Dad.

A tribute to my father on a weekend that is tough for a lot of us.

Father’s Day is complicated for many of us. For me, it is a reminder of who I miss the most: my dad. He passed away suddenly (heart attack) 22 years ago, when I was 30 and he was 72. He never met my kids, which breaks my heart every day. I thought I would share some memories of him as a hug to anyone mourning the absence of a father or father figure this weekend.

My father was a fantastic storyteller. My grandmother had a screened-in porch, and on summer nights, while we visited when I was little, my dad would gather me and my cousins around to tell us ghost stories. I knew the drill: he’d use an extra deep voice, make ghost sounds (as one does), and end tales in a way that had us begging for the lights to be turned on. It was great fun, and I credit him for my creative freedom.

We didn’t have much money, but my father ensured we rented the same bungalow at the Jersey Shore for two weeks every summer. My fondest childhood memories are of being in the ocean with him, tossing me into waves, and teaching me how to swim. My mom worried my father would get swept out to sea because he loved floating far from the shore. Now I understand why: I love the ocean because of him and because it is so much bigger than any problem I’m experiencing. I swim in the sea no matter how cold it is; I feel closest to him when I am there. Living at the Jersey Shore, only five minutes from the street where I spent my youth every summer, gives me solace.

Since my mom worked 9-5, and my father worked nights, he was my primary caretaker after school (as was my older sister). We’d watch Tom & Jerry, Bugs Bunny, Popeye, and Gilligan’s Island—he loved Ginger. I was probably too young to watch it, but one of his favorite shows was Love Connection with Chuck Woolery. I think he would have loved The Bachelor.

My dad cooked dinner every night. An Irish man through and through, his specialties were anything containing meat and starch. One night, he got creative and baked—yes, baked—perogies with marinara sauce. He thought it was similar to making ravioli. My mom, who was 100% Italian, cussed him out when she got home from work. I could not stop laughing. I tell this story every chance I get. It is the essence of my dad: always willing to be different.

My father, an animal lover, cared for a cat named Minnie while working for the railroad. He fed her, cared for her kittens, and was devastated when she disappeared. He also brought home, in no particular order, chicks for Easter (my mother was displeased), a stray dog that we then had to drive to a shelter, allowed a cat into our apartment, and got us a goldfish named Sal who had a penchant for pepperoni. Sal lived for three years!

We lived on the edge of a park, so my dad and I went for long bike rides on lovely spring and summer evenings. I loved spending that time with him. He made sure not to go too fast, so I would keep pace with him, and we’d stop for an ice cream cone along the way. It was our secret because we returned with nothing for my mom. Oops.

My father never finished high school, but he was a voracious reader. We’d go to the library often, where he’d check out every book he could find about the Civil War, and I would ask if I could read Judy Blume. He always said yes because, in his words, “Reading opens your mind to possibilities.” He is the reason I work in book publishing.

As I got older and commuted to Rutgers-Newark between jobs, I’d stop home for an hour or so to chat with my dad. We talked about current events and politics. A staunch Democrat, he helped shape my political views. He was never without a newspaper, so I read many daily. We always watched 60 Minutes and 20/20. If I were home, we’d watch the evening news. Like him, I have an opinion about everything and can back it up with facts.

One of my dad’s proudest moments was when I graduated college—the first person in our family to do so. When I decided to start my MBA program at age 49, I heard his voice, “An education is something no one can take away from you.” I just registered for an MA program in English and Creative Writing Nonfiction. I begin classes in October. I only wish he were here to see me accomplish this.

Our relationship got complicated when I met my husband. I blame myself. Here I was, perennially single, bringing home the guy in a band and leaving for Boston with him without properly introducing him to my parents. I was 26, free, and angling to leave my parent’s house. At the time, my husband had his ears pierced, wore a leather jacket, and worked for a record company in Boston. Now that we are parents with a teenage daughter, we understand my father’s skepticism. Luckily, they found common ground. Unfortunately, it was close to when my dad passed away.

On 9/11, my father watched the news as the towers were hit. He knew I worked close by. He called me at the office and said, “I want you to get out of there, kiddo. This is World War 3.” I didn’t listen to the CEO of Penguin at the time. I listened to my father. I led my entire department away from Hudson Street and ensured they reached their apartments. Some were in tears, others were in shock, but they were safe. They can thank Bill Matthews.

The last conversation I had with my father was the day before he died. He sounded off to me, so I asked if he felt okay. In his way, he said, “It’s just old age catching up to me, kiddo.” I had a nagging feeling that I should see him but ignored it, which I still regret.

It was after midnight when my answering machine clicked on. My mom was frantically screaming to pick up the phone. She had found my father on the bathroom floor, and the paramedics were on the way. My husband drove as fast as he could as I cried and repeatedly said, “Daddy, please don’t die. Daddy, please don’t die.”  When we arrived, the flashing lights of the ambulance and firetruck told me what I already feared: it was too late. He was gone.

Being tasked with calling your relatives to tell them your dad died is something I wish on no one. I couldn’t even go near the coffin at his wake—it was too painful. The day my dad died, he took a piece of my heart with him. The good news is, I know I can love fiercely because of him. The better news is that my son looks just like him, so when he smiles, I see my father: funny, kind, and intelligent. My daughter has a wicked sense of humor. Both of my kids love a good, spooky movie, too. For that, I am forever grateful.

Here's to you, Bill Matthews. I carry you with me every day. Whenever I think I can’t do something, you tell me, “You are never stuck. No problem is unsolvable.”  I love you, dad.