pyroguysr's Diaryland Diary

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I MISS YOU, POP'S

Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye!
In Memoriam: John L. Kus, May 9, 1921 to March 29, 1996

I MISS YOU, POP'S

Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild,
When my heart you so beguiled
Why did ye run from me and the child
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye


9 years ago, at around 9:30 am, I got a call at work from my then-wife, Johanna. My dad had passed away. It was the Monday before Easter that year. My son and I had gone over to Mom�s house the night before because Dad had been having hallucinations. He was dying from cancer and tired of the chemotherapy. He wanted to go. That night, he�d been flailing his arms. When asked what he was doing, he said he was moving the clouds aside so that he could see his sister, Helen, and his brother-in-law, Ray. They had both past away.

When my son, Chris, and I got there that night, Dad�s breathing was ragged, his eyes fixed and unblinking. My son saw death staring him in the face for the first time� something very difficult for a 14 yr old. Just the year before, my Mom had almost died from pneumonia � but she�s a tough old bird. This time, Dad was ready to go.

Chris looked at him solemnly. Just that Saturday, he�d been shouting out directions from the bedroom as to how I should proceed with the family tradition of making home-made Polish sausage. He and I always disagreed on how best to make it, but he always complimented me on my efforts.

My family is the odd one. Dad was a first generation American. He spoke Polish until he was 7 years old. When he entered school, they taught him in Polish until the 3rd grade, then they demanded the children learn in English. Even though the nun�s and priests at St. Adalbert�s Catholic School were fluent in Polish, they taught in English to these kids, realizing that it was the only way that they�d succeed. In this small town of Whiting, IN, each neighborhood supported it�s own church. The Polack�s had St. Adalbert�s. The Hunky�s had St. John�s. The Czeck�s had theirs as did the Romanians, the Serbs and the Croat�s. These were poor but proud people that all worked for either the Rockefeller�s Standard Oil Refinery there or at Carnegie�s U.S. Steel Corp. They worked hard and long to provide for their families.

I didn�t find out until we were at the funeral home that dad had never completed his sophomore year of high school, having to quit in order to work and help support the family when Gramps had been injured at work. They didn�t have health insurance benefits in those days.

Our house was the one where kids congregated. Even after my brother, Mike, and I left, our friends would come over and hang with my parents. They never seemed to mind� just like I don�t mind kids around me now. Ours was �the place.� If you came by, you got fed, you got some drink and you got conversation. A friend of mine I knew from San Diego found that out when he and his new wife stopped by on their way up to Wisconsin, where he was from. His intent was to stop in and tell my folks I said hello. They ended up staying for dinner.

My Dad and his siblings were often at odds with each other on certain viewpoints. His older brother and he would visit often and they would try to solve the world�s problems � even though their viewpoints would sometimes differ widely. They weren�t arguments though. I know this to be a fact because, when I was about 8 yrs old, Uncle Leo came over for one of these roundtables. He and Dad got into it� probably about politics or some such� and I came out from my bedroom to complain, asking that they �quit arguing.� Leo, in his inimitable way, told me that they weren�t �having an argument,� but were �conducting a loud discussion.� My family is good at conducting these sort of discourses. Just get us all together and have someone mention religion, politics or sex and see what kind of fireworks go off!

On that previous evening, 9 years ago, I stroked my Dad�s head and softly spoke to him, extolling, �Rest easy, Johnny. Rest easy.�

I knew he was going to his reward.

Dad firmly believed in heaven and hell. He also firmly believed that he was going to heaven because he�d lived his life to the best of his ability. He wasn�t perfect, mind you, but he felt he�d done everything as best he could. He�d kept a house over our heads, stayed loyal and married to the same woman for 49 years, taken his family on vacations so that they could see the world, served his country during WWII, cared for HIS mother as well as his wife�s and raised 3 of his own children, putting them through 8 years of Catholic school. I don�t know if we are a disappointment to him for not continuing to be Catholics, but he was never one to give praise lavishly.

I�d called him on that once. I always heard praise about me or my son second- and third-hand. Rarely from his own lips did I ever hear anything. When asked about that, he told me, �I didn�t want you to get a big head.�

Dad would offer advice, often whether you asked for it or not. He would always tell you that his advice was worth what you paid for it, so take it or leave it. He used to give me advice a lot more than I cared for it. Much of it I attempted to ignore, but I also absorbed quite a bit.

I miss that advice now. And I sure could use it.

2:30 p.m. - 2005-03-29

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

previous - next

latest entry

about me

archives

notes

DiaryLand

contact

random entry

other diaries:

minnapop
sbsneech
mrscoble
loversvanity
jellyrose
buttwhore
zalitar
newsoulie
orsimblossim
fleureurope
hissandtell
secretinside
elgorbo
nightdragon
grassyknoll
bindyree
lady-frenzy
breakthedark
nilliem
bettyford
sketty
scotvalkyrie
kungfukitten
joiedv
nimbus-
off-book
tudor-diva
petmykittie
chasngghosts
onewithout
degausser
prisscoble