The Suit

The sky was that achingly beautiful blue, promising and fresh with the first warm drenches of summer. The sun poked golden fingers through my open window, laughing at the curtains that tried, ineffectively, to push it out of the way. Carefully extracting myself from my entourage of stuffed animal buddies, I quickly made my way to the closet to see if they were still there. Yes! The long rectangular box sat neatly on the floor, the simplicity of the cardboard container being no disguise to the unprecedented value of the contents: my PF Fliers.  PF Fliers were no ordinary sneaker.  They could make you run faster (maybe than my older brother), and jump higher. Above all, they heralded the freedom of summer and the boundless possibilities to climb trees, make forts, and play “spy” until the day shut down and allowed the night to take over.

As quickly as I could, I dove into the clothing my mother had been so clever to sew for me on her machine, and sank my feet into my navy blue and red plaid companions, ready to bolt into the morning glory. As I tore through to the kitchen, my new blinding speed was brought to an abrupt halt.  My two brothers stood before me, similarly corralled by the smiling figure of my father. My dad was as tall as a giant in my eyes, lanky but not without a muscled physique. He had clear blue eyes, and even at his young age, his hair was thinning in the pattern of many of his brothers.  His smile was mischievous, his words authoritative but kind for someone who at such a young age already had three children in tow. What was up on this Saturday morning?

“We are about to start an adventure!”  said Dad. And he marched us out the door to the Oldsmobile, where after the ceremonial calling of “window Seat first” I inevitably wound up in the middle with my feet stuck on the hump. Some adventure.  But as the car started, we all wondered where exactly he was pointing that vehicle. It was too early for the very rare treat of ice cream cones.  I saw no evidence of the packed lunches signifying a trip to our grandparents.  Hmmm.  We were duly unenthused as we arrived in front of Sears Roebuck, and I in particular had a sinking feeling we would be spending the morning looking at tools. The hardware department, with its distinctive and in my opinion unpleasant odor of steel and grease, and the awful overhead lights buzzing, was NO PLACE I would call an adventure. So grim faced, we unloaded, passing through the glass doors, on our way to what I expected would be the most unpleasant of mornings.

To my astonishment, we walked past the hardware department, the beads of sweaty apprehension now disappearing from my brow, and my curiosity began to peak.  My Dad made his way into the men’s clothing, with all of us in tow.  But he didn’t stop at the underwear, or the coveralls, things he would normally have needed. He passed the T-shirts and shorts. We wound through the isles to an unknown land, where fine cloths in professional shades of charcoal, blue, and black hung sternly from rows, and all of us hushed our chatter without so much as a warning, the formality of the air having overtaken our very breath. A man approached us, his arm bedecked with tape measures and his hands brandishing the most foreign pieces of chalk.  Whispers were exchanged between this man and my father, and in a matter of moments my father was whisked to the top of a stage, where he stood, arms outstretched, while beautiful garments were draped, measured, marked, and pin tucked. We sat quietly in awe, for we had never, to my recollection, seen my father in a suit.

My father was one of ten children of a Catholic family.  His parents spoke very little English, having arrived in Pennsylvania from Hungary. His father began working in the Bethlehem Steel Mill, which at the time was the place where most men worked. His brothers worked there as well, and dreams of college or doing anything other than manual labor were simply not entertained or trusted. You packed your lunch and your thermos, you put in your hours, and if you were lucky, would have a pension at the end of your years of labor. My father, being one of the youngest, had plenty of years to observe this phenomenon, and wasn’t quite sure he was ready to sign up.

The story is told he was offered a full scholarship to Penn State, but was not permitted to take it, as higher education meant four fewer years of working towards your pension. I believe that if only because my Dad was such an intelligent man, but respected his parents. He opted instead for the Navy, where a love of airplanes blossomed, and filled his mind with all kinds of crazy thoughts. In time, he had put himself through airplane mechanic school, and found himself working for Air France at JFK airport in New York. He would come home smelling of grease and steel, the pockets of his overalls jingling with coins from foreign lands that had been lost in the seats of the jets making their way across the ocean. He would gather us around, as we would try to discern the country of origin, and he would speak of traveling there some day. So what was he doing on a stage?

As the twirling and the marking and the chatter came to a close, he turned to face us, a new man in a suit, the white collar of his shirt held neatly in place by a knotted silk tie.  His blue eyes with just the hint of the ocean, his grin tempered by a touch of thankfulness, he announced he had received a promotion, whisking him from blue collar overalls to white collar responsibilities.  He would be, in fact, be responsible for the mechanical integrity of aircraft leaving from O’Hare international airport in Chicago. And that necessitated a suit.

“There are no boundaries if you dream big enough, and work hard enough,” he reminded us. And so began our new adventure, which is in itself another tale. I never forgot my father’s words, nor did my brothers, as we worked our way through obtaining the first college degrees in our family, followed by successful careers as a doctor, a pilot, and a computer wizard.  I will always be thankful for the father I had, although it wasn’t for long enough, the lessons he taught me, and the love that he showed me.

He was, in a word, extraordinary, and someday I hope to tell you the tale of French Onion Soup and the discovery of Butter.  Happy Father’s Day to all of you men that touch our lives for the better.