It’s been nearly 25 years since I’ve spent Father’s Day with my dad; 2013 with my fatherin- law.
But they are still with us.
I never knew my maternal grandfather. He had died in the 1950s from emphysema at age 53.
Willard John Berry was born near Oviatt, now a ghost town, in Kasson Township near the Benzie-Leelanau County line. He, his father, Willard John Berry, mother, Lilly Scherrer, and little brother, Hazen, went out to the West Coast, likely by train, settling in Washington State.
I haven’t sniffed out why they made that huge trip from northern Michigan. Both my greatgrandparents were from the Midwest — Lilly was the daughter of a Lutheran minister in Indiana, so it wasn’t for family. More research is needed to ferret it out.
However, Willard Sr., returned to the area with his boys in 1909 after his wife, Lilly, died.
My grandparents met one another while he was living in a boarding house which occupied the site of the current Traverse City Senior Center. My grandma, Ethel Tompkins was working there. The two married in October 1920 and settled at Old Mission where my great-grandfather, William “Tink” Tompkins was a fruit farmer.
I didn’t hear this story until the latter days of my mother’s 93 years — only because I asked.
My older sisters do have some memories of him. They recall him setting at the farm table, talking with his sons and eating saltine crackers in milk, with a little sugar. (Don’t knock it ’til you try it.)
“I remember him sitting in Grandma’s house on Center Road, watching us kids, never raising his voice,” my sister said. “It must have been near the end of his life… Dad said ‘He was the best man I knew.’” That time, albeit it short, had an impact on my father, who modeled grandpa rarely raising his voice, and the same work ethic.
Dad would come home from work, his hands rough from working in bricks and cement. When I was very young he’d sit in his chair with me at this feet and I’d unlace his work boots. After dinner, he’d go work in the orchard or in our sizable garden. Then he’d come in and hit the hay before going to bed to get up and do it all over again.
I remember my younger sister and I creeping into bed with him and singing the national anthem. He didn’t shoo us away.
Sundays were a big deal for him. He’d take what he called a “full bath” and emerged from the bathroom dressed for church. The scent of Old Spice wafting behind him. His polyester leisure suit was topped off with a furry (fake) Cossack hat.
He never denied my backseat requests to sing French Canadian songs on our trips from Traverse City to my grandfather’s house in Lake Leelanau —the songs he had learned from his father and grandfathers. I fully embraced his heritage, which included holiday greetings.
Joyeux noël. “Bonne année. We lost him in 2000 to cancer, a couple months short of his 75th birthday.
At the time, I thought he was old. Both my older sisters are now in their mid-70s. I’m 60.
Time gives us perspective. It’s also given me time to think. I remember all the times I called their house and asked for mom.
I’ve give anything to talk with him again. But I do find comfort in watching my son, Tim, spending time with his sweet little girls. He’s become a great, patient man, who loves his girls to pieces and works hard in the trades (like my dad) to get them what they need.
When I see Tim picking up his nearly 3-yearold, Maeve, I remember a picture taken when I was her age, held by my dad.
Thanks to all the “dads” in my life and others who, may not be dads, but provide a positive influence in the lives of others.
They are still with us.
