FOR FATHER’S DAY, 6/19/2022

Carol's Corner, Christian Writings (Newsletter)

My Dad

“Who, that I know, has a dad like mine?” I used to wonder about this when I was a child. I knew my dad, above of all others, was kind. And he was interested in and excited about so much of what life had to offer!

I am blessed to have had a father that knew the Lord and loved Him. Dad read the Bible early in the morning and sang hymns most of the day. He whistled hymns and he played the harmonica and accordion by ear. I can still hear him singing if I listen closely enough; he sang all day long at different intervals of gardening, pruning trees, working on a project around the home or merely, driving…He had a rich, distinctive and deep voice that would have highlighted any choir. I am sure the Lord has a special place for him in Heaven’s Choir.

Dad won many medals for his artistic way of gardening. I’m sure if I entered some of his artwork in popular contests he would have placed or received Honorable Mentions. I recently learned, by finding a favorite book of his, that he had an interest in the Bonsai Tree, a miniature tree that grows in a small tray: Vincent, my husband and I visited Selby Gardens in Sarasota, Fl. on several occasions where the mature Bonsai, growing in the earth, are plentiful. Curiously, I also found a copy of Writer’s Digest dating back to 1979, the year of my divorce from my children’s father.

I am not surprised that my dad was interested in writing. Dad was a poet at heart: aside from the Bible, a book that brings a vivid memory to my heart is a book named, Poems That Touch the Heart by A. L. Alexander, that occupied the living room. It ran the gamut of life-themes, like love, discord, marriage, death, sorrow, friendship, loyalty, decision-making, etc. I often found him reading this book, quietly, enjoying the evening. This is where I first found Emily Dickinson’s, “If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking.” I was around 11 years old.

I often think about all the conversations we might have had about our similar interests, things to do and places to see; but our time alone, together (father/daughter time) was essentially, nil. Mom had a chemical imbalance, neither diagnosed, nor discussed; so, most of the focus was to keep her content. In the 50s and 60s, there were no meds; no treatments; no Crisis Intervention, no group or individual therapies. Dad, kind and patient, tried to work around it. He did the best he could with a delicate situation; he loved mom, dearly. Since she was not easily redirected, he often allowed her to have her way. Unaddressed mental health issues in the family distress the entire family not only the person with the illness; the issues remained unresolved.

Dad had many interests and he nurtured them as time allowed. He worked in the basement of the Bridgeport Brass Company in Bridgeport, CT., a die-maker, a perfectionist at his trade…. every day for 40 years. He worked a second job, when work was available, doing masonry, building fireplaces, walls, stone floors, sidewalks, even houses when asked. He was artistic, multi-talented and worked under poor conditions to support his family. My father, a man with an extraordinary sense of humor, telling stories to the whole family about his days when he was a young man working on his brother, Lou’s small milk truck delivering a variety of dairy products to homes. In those days, when no one knew the extent to which cholesterol could harm us, we just blissfully enjoyed the delectable flavors, without a care and without knowledge to refrain.

We would laugh until our bellies hurt but dad kept on making us roar. My cousins who are far younger than I, still recall the milk truck stories ‘Uncle George’ told and the laughter that followed. He was a raconteur at heart; we were on the edge of our seats waiting for the next detail! He had a great style to his story-telling. He visualized the story and smiled and laughed to himself, just before his audience broke into laughter. So we knew that he was enjoying his story, along with us!

What a guy!

Dad was a ‘world-traveler’ said my cousin John, another only child, our mothers having been born, sisters. Dad was an avid reader and traveled to the far corners of the world in his mind as he read. He would always say, “I have a great imagination.” This man, with a knack for beautifying everything he touched, from his rock-garden to his flagstone walk, merely accepted the fact that he worked at the Bridgeport Brass Company in a basement with no windows, cutting dies with precision for a living for forty years – and worked with a sense of joy as an artist after work, either sketching, or building stone walks and walls and fireplaces or tending the garden. (Our family called the landscaped acre in our back yard our “park.”) He would never take credit for any of its beauty though…he would say with humility “I just plant the seeds and God does the rest.”

Dad was a practical man. I remember that he would carry an umbrella to work every day, ‘just in case it rained;’ he walked several blocks to his place of work from the car, to the Bridgeport Brass Company, in CT., where he worked for forty years. He had been caught in a downpour or two of rain and intended not to have that occur, again…thus, the umbrella. I can’t recall that he ever missed a day of work, dressed in a shirt and tie and a good pair of pants; Sunday shoes, every day.

I remember the newspaper covering for his head that he would fold in place and tuck, with the same precision he used when measuring a cement walk, when he was working outside on a very hot day. Dad fastidiously folded each corner to result in a raised oval covering above his ears. It shaded him from the sun. He would wear it while he was pouring cement in the hot sun, whistling all the while, (usually, a beloved hymn or and old favorite like, Jimmie, Crack Corn or Little Jimmie Brown, Oh, The Chapel Bells Were Ringing) enjoying what he was doing, proud of a job well done. I remember him fondly.

I wrote the following for him, one day and read it to him. When I lifted my eyes to him, his eyes were filled with tears… and then, he smiled.

CHEERS!

A Letter to You, Dad…

Here’s to you, Dad:

to your skills as a builder of houses and dreams;

to your craft, etched with precision; to the work of your hands,

through the years of your life. Thank you for building my world.

Here’s to you, Dad:

to your strength of character – to your acceptance of life in the raw. To your readiness to forgive – and your caution in judging. Thank you for the heart you try to conceal; for letting me see your imperfections ~ thereby making it possible for me to embrace my own.

Here’s to you, Dad:

to your love of life and God and people; to your spirit – to your sacrifice – to your sense of humor and to the raconteur within you – to your quest for knowledge. Thank you for pursuing life in spite of its storms that rage. Thank you for teaching me to smile.

Your heart is an open book. It teaches humility and hope and courage. The words speak echoes of truth and lovingly, of Christ’s promise for an eternity without pain.

© 2022 Carol Ann Castagna

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He leads me by quiet waters. Psalm 23: 2