When I was 3 years old, I gave my father the scare of a lifetime.
A tool and cutter grinder by trade, he was working a weekend shift at a factory in New Castle, Indiana, one day when the police came and told him there had been a bad accident and he needed to get to Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis … quickly.
As he would later tell me, he broke many speed limits while racing down I-70, stopping in Greenfield where it dead-ended at the time, and dropping down to U.S. 40 or Washington Street to get to the hospital.
Upon entering, he asked the nurse for help in locating his son, Danny. His eyes scanned the computer screens – or whatever kinds of screens they used back in 1967 – and he saw my name listed under a column of deceased patients.
His heart sank, for a moment, until the nurse corrected the mistake and told him to head to the intensive care unit where the doctor would meet him.
Alive … barely.
After a weekend celebration of Father’s Day – and today’s teaching on praying to “Our Father” in heaven – I thought this would be a good opportunity to write a little about my own dad.
So there I was … chubby little boy with a head that had swelled to the size of a kickball, lying in bed with some 200 stitches across my scalp.
I had fallen head-first out of a 2nd story bedroom window at our house in Richmond, Ind., where I grew up five blocks away from downtown and three blocks away from Holy Family Catholic Church on Main Street. I busted my head open on the sidewalk below. My brother screamed for my mom, who screamed for anyone … and a next door neighbor, who was a dentist, was smart enough to grab my tongue so I wouldn’t swallow it while I was convulsing.
Our parish priest ran three blocks and gave me my Last Rites. How cool is that?
Long story short … I did not die. And to the surprise of many, I did not suffer any mental problems … as far as you know.
And my father survived one of the most tense days of his life.
Although my dad, Michael J. McFeely, had his issues – what father doesn’t – he loved me and my older brother and three little sisters. He loved my mom, even after they divorced in the late 1970s.
But he was complicated.
And as I pondered writing this today, I forced myself to think back to the good, the bad and the ugly of my father … cracking open a cold beer, lighting a cigar and pondering just what it was that he passed on to his son.
Was it a few of his classic teaching moments … how to open a beer can while driving on a curvy road; how to ask every waitress … Are you married? Happily?
No, my dad was not a great philosopher, but he did pass on some solid life lessons to go along with other, more typical “dad lessons.”
Most people thought my father was an alcoholic. He did love his beer. And he could never handle the hard liquor … as evidenced by a few DUI’s that thankfully did not hurt him or anyone else, but did spell the end for many a farmer’s fence on the back roads between New Castle and Richmond.
But the truth was that he suffered from a mild form of paranoid schizophrenia, which bounced him out of the military after just a few years in the late 1950s.
He had trouble handling life’s little trials. He used to hide whiskey bottles all over the house, just in case he needed a quick shot. He would often spend his payday nights – this was long before direct deposit – drinking away our grocery money at a local bar. My mom used to search for his car, walk into the bar and grab his wallet and keys, then leave him there to fend for himself.
He never got mad about this. Deep down, I think he knew it was for the best.
I’d like to be able to say that all this behavior eventually stopped … but it didn’t. He played the game of drinking and acting like a child all the way up to the day my mom said enough and booted him out of her life.
By now you must be wondering what on earth did this guy do to help me in my formation as a man and as a Catholic?
PROVERBS 22, VERSE 6
Train the young in the way they should go; even when old, they will not swerve from it.
Despite his flaws, my father instilled in me and my siblings a true, deep love and respect for the Catholic Church. He seldom missed Mass. He had great respect for Father Minton, our parish priest at Holy Family in Richmond, God Rest His Soul.
He pushed me into being an altar boy, which was a great experience for me and my brother … especially the Midnight Masses when we wore the red robes and the tight, white collars … carrying the cross or the candles and standing up on the altar. Great memories.
My father also taught me how to fish in Muskegon, Michigan. He taught me how to smoke a cigar in our backyard. He once pulled me out of school for a day to take me to the horse races at beautiful Keeneland in Lexington.
He had this mantra that he used to repeat … Live every day like it’s your last, because you never know when God is going to bring you home.
Live every day like it’s your LAST … because you never know.
That lesson has stuck with me.
Put another way … it’s like making sure you tell your wife, your kids, your loved ones that You LOVE them … as many times as you can. Never miss an opportunity.
One of my favorite sections of the newspaper are the obits. After checking to make sure that I’m not listed there, I spend time reading about the dads and moms, grandparents and sometimes kids who passed away.
And I often wonder … what were the last words they heard before the left this earth? What were the last words they said?
My father, for all of his faults, knew the importance of spending each day like it could be the last. Of course, that can be taken to the extreme and become an excuse to go crazy … and he did go crazy quite a bit. But at the same time, he planted enough seeds in my heart that I’ve been able to recognize the value of living each day to its fullest.
My wife and I don’t miss Mass on Sundays. We rarely miss a Holy Day of Obligation. We embrace the seasons of Lent and Advent, Christmas and Easter … and we hope that our example will not go unnoticed.
My father was the same way with me. I remember Mass with him. I remember going to confession with him … his always took a little longer than ours …
I can even recall that he would make the sign of the cross whenever he drove by two places … a liquor store … and any Catholic Church.
It was a very cold and snowy day in 1992 when I got the phone call every son hopes to never get.
My dad was just 52, and on that morning, he was separated from his second wife, living in a little roadside motel about a half-mile from the Ford plant in Connersville, where he worked as a supervisor.
He had yet to ever truly grow up and live the mature life of a 50-something … so it was not a surprise to learn that while he had plenty of beer in the fridge, his car was not running and he was walking to work on a daily basis … on a very busy state highway.
Well, you can guess where this is heading … on this snowy morning, a car that was passing another on the left went a little too far and clipped my dad as he walked toward the factory. He was probably thrown 100 yards and landed in a ditch.
The ambulance came and there was an attempt to rush him to a trauma center in Indianapolis — taking a route similar to the one taken back in 1967 when that 3-year-old boy was rushed to Riley. But on this day, the snow was falling too hard, the roads were too slick … and by the time they reached Rushville, my father had died.
No more chances to tell him how much I loved him. How much I missed our time together, now that I was an adult.
No time left for him to enjoy my beautiful grandchildren … the true joys of my life.
No time to get to know my wife better, whose love has sustained me for nearly 25 years.
And no time to tell him how thankful I am that he instilled in me a love for my faith.
I trust he knows by now … I pray that he does.
Fathers … grandfathers … future fathers … keep in mind the power you have to influence your children.
Be kind, loving. Have fun … be a MAN to your children.
Take your faith seriously.
Accept your role as a spiritual leader for your family, and perhaps your friends. Embrace the faith that your father in heaven has handed down to you.
Despite your own shortcomings … your own flaws … the message you want to impart to your kids will come through. Maybe not right away. Maybe not while you’re still alive.
But it will come through.
What will that message be?
