He said we were all planned

Dad and mom were practically only children. My mother was raised by her mom. Her dad parts unknown. My dad had a sister that was eight years older so he too grew up like an only child.

They wanted to have a big family. So there we were. Six kids. Five boys and a solitary girl. Who knows how dad and mom ended up with all boys. My sister was almost like an only girl child.

I was the leader of the boy gang. They said I led them into trouble and that I was a bit of a bully. I remember it differently. I was teaching them.

Mom called me a trouble maker. Dad called me a good kid. Those words usually came after mom provided a litany of crimes that I had committed while dad was at work.

She chased me with a wooden spoon. I let her catch me after she got tired so she wouldn’t insist that I get it from dad. He was so kind and soft, until he wasn’t. I was always testing my limits and frequently found out where they were.

We were sort of a funny group of kids, brown, blonde, brown blonde etc. We all had nick names. I had a few. The one I liked was Kritter. That is what dad called me. I think it was because I was always getting into things.

Dad was the Great Promiser. That’s what mom said. He would spend so much time with his hobbies that he didn’t get out as much as she wanted to. Mom was tired of five boys. My sister was well behaved. I made up for that lacking.

My other brothers were mostly good kids. They only got in trouble when they were with me for some reason. It wasn’t until they were much older when they could hang out with me going places. I was very ambitious about going out alone to discover things. If they couldn’t keep up, they would turn around and head home.

Dad was a true master of many trades. He worked as a welder, carpenter, builder, draughtsman, printer and photographer. He got a teaching degree and taught art classes. He also taught history.

He brought home 8mm documentary movies that we had to watch. Some were very interesting and some were not. He had a big movie projector and a screen that he would set up at home. He was a real pro.

He and mom did water colours, oil paintings, clay statues and etchings. Our homes were always filled with art, equipment, magazines, records and books. Any open space would be slowly filled up with something he was working on.

My sister and I lived for a while in a trolly station. He later broke that down and used that wood to help build our first real house. Meanwhile we lived in a trailer. One that shocked you every time you touched it barefooted. I think he wired it wrong.

He built two of our houses and a beach house. None of them were ever quite finished. My first job was to hand him and his friends nails. It was the first time I tasted beer. It was awful. When I got as old as he was at the time I couldn’t get enough of it.

It sort of became a family thing not to finish stuff. Me and my brothers used to say that like it was a good thing. Most of what dad worked on were forever work-in-progress.

His taste in architecture always depended on what he was into at the moment. Our first house was pitch black and looked like it didn’t belong in America. It had a steep pitched roof with eves that almost went to the ground. It never had to be painted. Ever. He used creosol black. It was probably carcinogenic.

He made a small copy of that house for his art. It quickly filled up and I don’t think they used it except for storage. We then moved to a brand new home in a modern housing development. I think mom and the rest of us got tired of falling through the stairs that were not finished. We finally grew out of the black house when my littlest brother was born.

Dad had inherited some money as well as a lot of nice furnishing. They were Chineses furnishings. He talked about living on a Chinese Junk for a while. He and mom were into a bit of oriental art. They took us to China Town one time for Christmas shopping and a dinner.

We took two trips around the United States in a VW bus. Because dad was a teacher he had summers off. So they made a big trip to see every State. So many stories there for another time.

In the new house dad had a big garage that he subdivided into a work area and a place for the dog to poop. I think he parked the car in the garage one or two times. It was then filled up with saws, boxes and magazines. We kept the dog there and had to clean out the poop once a month. It was more like chiseling. She wouldn’t go outside to our neighbours lawn, but the other dogs used our lawn. It wasn’t fair.

When I got in trouble that was my job. Scooping poop. And I think I did that often.

Dad had two printing presses and a dark room for photography. He was always doing something when he got off of work. He worked both at the high school and also worked at the supermarket. I don’t know where he got the time to do his hobbies, but he did.

Every summer he sent us off to summer school or camp. Mom was happy about that. He signed me up for a typing class. It had all girls except for me. It proved to be one of the most useful skills. I also took guitar and engine mechanics. He believed in education all year long.

My sister and I had accordion lessons when we lived in the black house. She also took baton twirling classes and I don’t know what else. Where dad got these ideas I never asked him. It kept me and my sister busy. Maybe mom had a hand in it.

Dad made colouring books that they sold at the county fair. I think he always spent more than he earned. He used to say that he did those things so he and mom could meet interesting people. I could never figure out if he was an entrepreneur or a social worker. He always pointed out how everybody is equal and about the injustices of many things.

He took me to one of his summer classes where he taught underprivileged black kids how to make things out of wood. They were wood panels for playing paddle ball. He was way ahead of his time. He took black studies and also taught at a community college. He and mom were liberal thinkers and not afraid to talk or meet with anybody.

If I had to add up all of the different things he and mom did, it would be enough for ten people.

Mom was also an artist. She wasn’t so much of a suzy home maker. She was a poet, avid reader, writer, calligraphist, paper maker. I could go on. She made soap and painted glass. Her and dad did so many things together and also apart.

At times I think we boys were more or less just in the way of a good life. I don’t think that either dad or mom were cut out to be like the Waltons. The idea of having a big family wore off pretty quickly. My brothers weren’t too happy about that. They eventually got over it, almost.

Dad and mom wanted to move out to the country to get away from the city. Something about drugs and riffraff. Dad bought a property that had a burned down building. We all chipped in to build a house on top of the old foundation. It took two summers. Also never quite finished.

Dad and mom commuted two hours in and two hours out and eventually gave up and got a place in the city and then bought a house there. Number two brother took over the house and built another small house next to it. That house was a holding place for all of dads artwork, books, magazines and equipment for ages.

In his new place in the city he started a whole new collection. He got into making boxes, collecting records books and many other things.

My sister and my brother got married and had a place of their own. I joined the Navy and spent five and a half years split between the Pacific, Atlantic and the Mediterranean.

I got married in Italy to an Italian girl whose father was a mean looking Sicilian. He loved me though, and also thought I was a trouble maker. I had my sister, mom and dad come and visit me in Italy where I stayed for two and a half years. I learned Italian and was a military policeman for a while.

My son was born in Italy. We went back to the States and dad let me live in one of his duplex apartments while I was going to university. My sister was a university and master’s graduate. He wanted us all to have a university education. I used up all of my GI bill. Six years worth.

Had two precious girls. My two other brothers also had girls. I think it was their turn to be the dominant party.

I made the mistake of asking mom to look after my kids just one time. She said, you made them you raise them I had mine and nobody helped me. She wasn’t going to be a baby sitter for no one. I think she seemed to forget my sister looked after us and I after my brothers, sort of.

Met a Sheikh in university and ended up going to the middle east and lived almost forever there. My kids spent summers in Italy and the States, but grew up in an Arab country.

I can’t but help think that my dad exposing me to the world through film clips and lectures when I was young had a bearing on me living abroad in a place I never would have imagined.

For a while I didn’t see much of my dad because I was busy with some big new project. I saw him during summers with mom. They were getting older but still collecting things. They had a camper and I would go with them once to the beach. Just mom, dad and me.

Mom got ill and the whole family visited her often in the hospital and hospice. Her co-occupants were amazed to see so many kids and grand kids around her. Dad was always there for her. He waited on her hand and foot.

I made mom write on a piece of paper, “I love you”. It is still with me. I don’t think she ever said those words to me. But I know she loved me. Even more when I was out of her hair.

The most striking thing I remember was he saying to dad. “Daddy, I don’t want to die.” I went back to the middle east and got a call. It was dad. He said, your mother passed away. I drank my tears and tried to think of my dad. How much it was impacting him. That was it. We talked for a bit. I could tell he changed at that point.

My brothers and sister kept him busy. He would sometimes say I should come home. I was not in a situation to travel as frequently as I had before. Time passed.

In the mean time brother number two and three ended up working in the Middle East also. We had great times together. They would come and stay with me spending a few weekends here and there together.

Time was sailing, I was busy and things became interesting. I tried to manage my time. It was hard. During that period of time we were all over the planet.

The eldest of my brothers called me one day to tell me he had a lump that needed to be extracted. It turned out to be cancer and over a few years it got worse. We did a bucket trip together and went to Russia, Oman and Thailand together. He made me drink even though I had quit for over a year. He said we gotta live while I can. So I did. I shaved my head just like his.

One day I was driving and. decided to call him. His wife said, he’s not here. I said, where did he go? She said he’s gone. I said where. She said he died this morning. I pulled the car over and bawled my head off. I cried so hard I scared myself. I couldn’t stop. I’ll never forget the place where that news hit me, and never forget him. I still have brothers and a sister to love thank God.

My kids were already in university. They were not only smarter than me, but also more responsible. That is a good thing.

My sister and her husband got dad into exercising. She was always taking care of things. She was the one person you could count on to be accurate and consistent. She turned into a mother hen for us boys, especially the ones who needed her the most.

My business partner in London helped me realise I needed to be more connected with my dad and helped me arrange a trip encouraging me to take time off to be with my father. I might of not done so if it were not for her insisting advise.

Finally I arranged for dad to come to London with my son and we had a big bucket trip. We took in the sights and did many things that people do in London. That’s another story.

My son went home and I took my dad to the middle east to visit my friends. He could still get around. I showed him my projects and he was the centre of attention. Given great respect and stature in the great Arabian tradition.

The next year I took him to China. We climbed the Great Wall. He got to go to the Forbidden City and saw the Temple of the Moon. We got our picture together as King and Prince.

On our way back we took a trip to Crater Lake, Cannon Beach and saw all of our old houses and his and mom’s university. He cried when we talked about certain things. So I avoided sensitive issues as much as possible. We stayed in a cabin in the mountains and had a great bucket trip time. He was funny and loving. I could tell he was happy.

He was well on his way with Dementia by the time we finished our bucket trips and had to check into a memory clinic. At the time I cried thinking he was going to die right away.

He lived on for four more years. Every week we. had a video call. I recorded them all. Little by little the conversations trickled to a halt. So I played the guitar. He would sometimes be almost normal, then sleepy. It was a sad trajectory.

The day came and we all were on a video call with him. He was laying on his bed sleeping with small gasps of breath. It was too much for my siblings to bear. My daughter was by his side stroking his face and talking to me.

My eyes filled with tears watching as his breathing slowly diminished. My daughter was as much comforting me as to her grandfather. I remember the news of my grandmother dying. It’s not the same when it is your mother, brother or father.

There he was. I was watching blurry eyed as he took is last breath, sobbing finally then being relieved that at last he was at peace.

Later I was told by a close friend, when I told him that I saw him take his last breath.

He told me, you know your dad saw you take your first breath, you saw his last.