Last Dance
Preamble: This piece was written in 2012 on the 25th anniversary of my father’s passing.
Dad directing Christmas festivities
A Complicated Man…
My dad was a complicated combination of traditional disciplinarian, beloved schoolteacher, respected church elder, sentimental family man, multi-talented musician, and crazy comic. He was always the center of our family universe. Though I adored and trusted him implicitly, he was at times a source of embarrassment and consternation, especially in my teens.
Friday Night Ritual…
Friday night grocery shopping best illustrates my dilemma. At the dawn of my teens, and still not quite ready to handle the care of two younger siblings on my own, Mom and Dad would load the three of us into the Dodge station wagon and head to one or more supermarkets. Our older brother escaped to weekly Boy Scout meetings, gladly avoiding the family ritual. Dad would be armed with coupons and store flyers, his essential bargain hunting tools. He was a shopping savant, tallying the cost of items purchased faster than the checkout register and taking great pleasure in precisely guessing the weight of a rump roast or several handfuls of green beans.
At some point between obsessive ounce-for-ounce price comparisons, a danceable melody would waft over the “Musak” system and catch Dad’s attention. Embracing an irresistible urge, he would grab me by the hand, sling me into the middle of the isle, and drag me into his jitterbug, fox trot, or swing dance frenzy. Mortifying to my mother and me, these exhibitions were consistently hilarious to my younger siblings and any lucky bystanders selecting canned soup, cornflakes, or cantaloupe.
Plaid Polyester Pants…
Unfortunately, his public antics were not limited to the aisles of Stop & Shop. They seeped into my social life as well, which in high school was largely centered around band and chorus activities. Though I sat in the “coveted” first chair of the clarinet section, I was not a virtuoso or star soloist. Regardless, my parents attended every concert, younger siblings in tow, even to distant exchange program locations. At my father’s insistence, they were always seated in the front row. This ensured that I would not miss his wild arm waving or his instant leap to a standing ovation the instant that the last note or drumbeat filled the air. If that wasn’t cringe worthy enough for a self-conscious teen, my dad’s wardrobe would certainly do the trick. For these special occasions, he would be decked out in his best 1970’s attire: plaid polyester pants, multicolored shirt, and super wide paisley tie.
Dad torturing my sister in her teens. Finally her turn!
In Absentia…
As I prepared to leave for college, the embarrassing trend continued. The summer after high school graduation, Dad gave me an unforgettable birthday present: a brand-new set of matching luggage in my favorite color, purple. But the collection was not an elegant lavender with a hint of gray. Thanks to my dad’s unfortunate aesthetic, it was a full-on Welch’s Grape Juice hue; easy to spot on airport baggage carousels and equally attention grabbing when arriving at your new dormitory home. I’ll never forget a much-anticipated evening out with two cool upperclassmen; a hometown “big brother” figure and his cute roommate whom I was hoping to impress. When they arrived in the dorm lobby, our departure was interrupted by an entourage of freshmen floor-mates racing toward us. One of them held high overhead a royally hued overnight bag, from my now infamous luggage collection, like it was a statue of the Madona in a religious procession. I stood in stunned silence while they shrieked “you forgot your clutch!” and then crashed to the floor in a hysterical heap. Even “in absentia,” Dad’s singular style was expertly delivered with trademark embarrassment.
Veiled Cover…
Over time, I either grew more accustomed to the discomfort of these awkward moments or began to see through them to my dad’s joyful and loving intent. Like the afternoon early in my first college semester when Dad came straight from teaching his last high school math class of the day to my campus. Undeterred by Boston’s rush hour traffic, he arrived hours later with a Webster’s dictionary in hand. Having mentioned in passing that I forgot to pack one, he thought it best to hand deliver a brand-new copy before my chances for success as an English major could be irreparably damaged. (Even though this was pre-dawn of the computer age, we did in fact have a bookstore that offered Merrium & Webster.) I let him keep his thinly veiled cover for checking in on me remain intact and enjoyed, without any embarrassing incident, his treating me to dinner at “The Pewter Pot” with as many co-eds as we could cram in his Delta 88.
Shock and Awe…
Yet even when I was a young professional in my late twenties, Dad could still conjure up a classic “cheek blushing, palm sweating” moment. I was ready to introduce my parents to a young engineer from work whom I had been dating for a couple of months. He suggested we invite my parents to his condo for dinner. I faced the evening with some trepidation. No suitor in the past had quite measured up to Daddy’s expectations for his little girl. All seemed to go smoothly until the first course was served. After one sip of the zucchini pesto soup, Dad solemnly placed his spoon down on the table. Then, much to our collective shock and awe, he leaned across toward me and declared “marry this man, he can cook!” A year later, I did.
It is now twenty-five years since my father’s passing. Countless snapshots of his antics and many tender moments with him are safely stored in my mental scrapbook. To this day, when a Count Basie or Glenn Miller tune plays over the Musak speakers in the supermarket isle, I think of my dad and wish for one last dance.
In loving memory of my father, Carmen Joseph Gallo 1922 - 1987.
