So what do you call your father?
I called my mom’s father G-Pa. A father-in-law answered to Pa. Daddy worked for me until my mid-20s, when I advanced to Dad.
I never knew Daddy’s father, Nicholas. He, his brother Ivan and cousin George landed at Ellis Island in the late 1800s.
Booming steel mills in our area eagerly hired Croatian ironworkers. George opted to become a coal miner. Ivan and Nicholas fought and never spoke again.
As Granddad aged, he watched the demand for immigrant steelworkers increase.
When he started his family, he opened the Fifth Avenue Hotel in the Cambria City section of Johnstown. It mostly served as housing for the itinerant arrivals. His five children, first- generation Americans, attended city schools and pitched in at the family business.
While attending Johnstown High School, Daddy worked summers and holidays in the mill, saving every cent for tuition. Mitch wanted to practice medicine. This ambitious kid impressed the veteran employees, especially Mikey and Ninko, who showed him the ropes and watched over him. He promised his mill buds free medical care when he reached his goal, and remained true to his word.
After studying pre-med at the University of Pittsburgh, he earned a doctor of medicine degree from Hahnemann University in Philadelphia, where he met Mom at a luncheonette.
I’ve often wondered why folks say, “Practice medicine.” Those doctors didn’t practice – they excelled. At age 4, I watched him perform a miracle.
My folks bought a house from PapPap Miller, a German immigrant who owned a tavern/restaurant in the Hornerstown section of Johnstown. Their family stayed in the neighborhood. PapPap and Gramma, son Carl and his brood, and Pop’s daughter Elsie and her family lived close by. That’s how I met my BFF Cathy at age 3.
PapPap loved gardening and maintained fruit trees, flower beds and vegetable patches at all the properties.
One summer evening, Cathy and I splashed through the sprinkler while PapPap pruned bushes. We laughed and horsed around. I don’t recall details, but by some mega-accidental slapstick play maneuver, Cathy’s index finger met the cutter blade. I can still hear her scream.
Daddy, on the spot, told Mom, “Get ice!”
He fashioned a tourniquet to stop the blood loss and instructed Mom to wrap the finger in an ice-filled dish towel. They dashed to Daddy’s car, and PapPap jumped in the back seat holding Cathy.
This was 1954. He saved her finger. She still enjoys full use of it. The only catch is – it’s still the finger of a 4-year-old. Cathy and Daddy shared a magical bond from then on. I gained a sister.
Sunday afternoons, he made house calls, and I rode along.
Generations stayed together then, and I’d play with kids while he treated grands. Black bag in hand, he carried medicines, often refilling his supply at Morrellville’s Corner Drug Store.
Daddy and I both loved cars.
A confirmed zealot, he believed in bigger, better, newer, faster. Moderately priced ’50s and ’60s models attracted average consumers. A trade-in every two years, Dad awaited the fall unveilings of new models like kids wait for Santa Claus.
Cars sported assorted body shapes, plus modern amenities (floor-button high beams, vent windows, wood grain) and we gawked at our RCA console, absorbing every detail.
Because of him, I treasure the classic vehicles that represent the craftsmanship and ingenuity of American autoworkers.
His example taught me to be the best possible me I can. An entire list of his accomplishments would fill this newspaper.
He delivered my other BFF, Sharon, the same year I arrived.
He left big footprints, but hey, I wear a size 11. Happy Father’s Day!
Read More: Michele Bender | Fathers know best | News