Yesterday would have been my daddy's seventy-sixth birthday. I know, I should have done some sort of blog tribute to him yesterday, but I didn't have time on Saturday, and yesterday being Sunday I did not want to spend time on the internet. There is no such thing as a little time on the internet. I was supposed to stay away from the internet on Wednesday, but my husband wanted me to email something to him, then I figured I am here, I may as well check my email, then answer my email, look a little something up to send, check out a friend......after twenty minutes, I finally grabbed hold of myself and said enough. My point is that there was no way I could do it Sunday and not catch a wave and surf, you know. I decided it wasn't a matter of life or death. Daddy would remain in St. Adalbert's cemetery whether I posted on his birthday or not. He'd be cool with it. He was practical that way.
You all know that my dad was born in Hungary. Small farm in a small village. Came to America. Just a tad paranoid after having lived in a Communist country so long. But did I ever mention his fierce loyalty?
One day dad and I were in the garage, and he hears a salesman making a pitch to the ninety year old home owner lady next door. He shushes me, and listens at the door of our garage. The salesman tries to convince our neighbor that something is seriously wrong, when it isn't, and my daddy grabs a shovel, hops over the fence, and starts swinging it at the salesman. The salesman asks him what business it is of his, as he runs around the yard, and daddy, in the thickest Hungarian accent you can imagine (he was very angry) says "any time someone tries to cheat my neighbor, it is my business!" I love love that memory! It was so him, in every little way. The temper flaring big time at injustice. The physical fitness to jump the fence. The ingenuity to use a shovel as a weapon. Not worrying about how he looks as he jumps a fence like a crazy man. His gentleness with me before, his kindness to the neighbor (he did the job she actually needed done for her, and refused to be given any money. "That is not what neighbors are for...".)
My dad did not drink beer, but he loved the Budweiser Clydesdales. Every time a commercial with those horses came on, he would point to the horses, and start talking about there beauty. The commercial from when I was a kid had the clunking noises from their hooves featured prominently, and he used to make the sound for me when he was kidding me. Good times. I am not going to run a "Happy Birthday" video a day late. Instead, I am posting the latest commercial with the Clydesdale. Even though daddy was from Hungary and not Scotland, I find it touching.