Remembering Dad....Finally

One summer day around 1930, a blue dog ambled across a Middletown street. On returning home, the dog’s owner (referred to in family lore as “Old Man Wilson The Undertaker” ), was so shocked at the sight of his turquoise terrier trotting down Broad Street that he drove his Duesenberg into a tree. He knew – as did the rest of the neighborhood – that the Burk boys were at it again. Frederick E. Burk was the youngest of five children, all of whom grew up in the home and family grocery store on the corner of Broad St. and Girard Ave. in the early 1900’s. Spoiled by two sisters and corrupted by two brothers, it’s no wonder he grew up blessed with an ample helping of “ornery. “ The influence of a volatile Sicilian immigrant father made him emotional and demonstrative as well, but rarely in a bad way. When I remember Dad, it is always with a smile and often outright laughter. I give him both the credit and the blame for my own goofy sense of humor. Not for me the subtleties of a Woody Allen movie; give me a good “Funniest Home Video” pratfall any day. I recently uploaded an iPhone app that deals with, well, flatulence. In honor of Dad. This should give you an idea of the silliness I had to contend with as I grew up. Of course some of it rubbed off. I’m convinced that when I wrote an essay in the style of Jane Austin recently, it was all Dad’s fault that it was about the results of “Taking the Activia Challenge.” Dad had a great zest for fun. When a gang of us Midway Street kids took to our bikes, it was often my father who could be seen leading the pack – pedaling away while sitting on the handlebars, facing backwards. He also introduced us to what might be referred to today as “Extreme Jump Rope,” producing an inch-thick specimen that must have been a mooring line for a battleship in a previous life. I can still hear that thing flying past my ears with a businesslike “wooofffff.” We quickly became adept at jumping because we were afraid a mistake would result in decapitation. A genteel swearer, Dad’s language was liberally peppered with “hells,” “damns” and other low-level profanity . He believed anything with a motor would work eventually provided you strung together the right cusswords . He once swore fluently at a chainsaw for a good thirty minutes before realizing he’d left the starter switch in the off position. I teased him about it for weeks. Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 1985, but he lived long enough to see me graduate from vet school , and enjoyed hearing about my classes and cases –the messier the better. Of course he was particularly entertained any time I had to pull on one of those long plastic gloves and introduce myself to the rear end of a cow or horse. Our class at Ohio State chose to wave to the crowd at the stadium during graduation ceremonies with inflated versions of those same gloves, and Dad couldn’t have been happier. When Mom and I went to the funeral home after Dad’s death –the current incarnation of the business started all those years ago by “Old Man Wilson, incidentally –we were amazed by how handsome he looked despite the ravages of 5 years of illness. His beautiful silver hair was neatly combed, the bloated side effects of his chemotherapy had disappeared, one corner of his mouth quirked upward – in short, he looked like he was ready to sit up and make a typical smart remark. Mom burst into tears – one of the few times I ever saw my strong, stoic mother weep - – and I tried to comfort her by saying “now, he wouldn’t want us to cry.” Her eyes flashed at me behind her glasses as she snapped, “Oh yes he would! ” I was silent for a minute, and then said “you know, you’re right” and we both cracked up in spite of our tears. Even through our grief, Fred Burk was still making us laugh.