​I remember standing in the upstairs hallway on Heathfield Road in our Baltimore row house with my Daddy.  He was holding the wet sash of my purple plaid dress and calling down over the banister, “Mom!  What should we do?  Janny got her sash in the potty.”  He hardly knew what to do with a little girl (though he had many more chances) just as, many years later, I hardly knew what to do with a little boy.

​Mostly he let Mom deal with us, though she always prefaced it with “your father and I,” telling us the rules, handing out allowances, arranging the Easter photos (where Kathy always cried).  But one day in 7th grade I was getting ready for a first:  friends and I were dressing up and taking the bus downtown by ourselves!  Daddy pulled me aside in the den and gave me $2 for extra spending money.  I was surprised and delighted—he never just handed me money! Rather, Daddy quietly and faithfully earned the money to support us.  He was one of the young men, a handsome sailor with a big grin, who came home from the war and ran with the promise that was America in mid-century.  He went to college on the GI bill, got a job, got married, bought a row house and set about raising a family, which turned out to be four little girls (and a female cat).  I always told people he joined the Scouts to get a break from us girls.

1957:  Dad & Mom with Mimi, Kate, Lisa & Jan​

And I always liked saying Daddy was a banker.  It was particularly exciting when he was held up and got his picture in the paper.  One day, in connection with recovering from my adolescent tonsillectomy, I even got to go to the bank with him for the day.  I guess money was tight when he took on the additional part-time jobs, but I just thought he liked the extra fun things he did—repossessing cars, working at Hecht’s before Christmas, taking wedding pictures.  I mean, we all knew he loved the Polish sausage at Polish weddings!

​At home he often did home improvement projects.  Paneling was the best.  I liked the way the paneling looked and even more how the wood smelled when he cut it.  How thrilled I was as the back room was taking shape—my very own room, and paneled too!  Mom and Dad actually let us write on the walls before Daddy paneled over them.  We filled the space with stories and pictures and silly poems and wondered who would discover them in the future.  The scent of fresh sawdust today still takes me back to Daddy working on a room and my anticipation of how wonderful it would look when he finished.

​The years passed as Daddy went back and forth through the Harbor Tunnel or down Charles Street or across the grass on the riding lawn mower or through the church aisles as an usher.  Along the way he drove us around the country on wonderful vacations and carefully photographed all our family events.  He let me look at his stamp and coin collections and took me on my first roller coaster ride.  I learned about Daddy-cookies and Ed Solomon and that Santa liked 7-Up.  He put up with the cats and he put up with all four of us girls climbing into bed with him and Mom on Saturday mornings to wake them up.  He had animated dinner conversations with a tableful of teenagers, and my friends thought he was fun and funny.  He stood tall and handsome and serious as he walked me down the aisle to meet Maurice at the altar.

​It never occurred to me, at any time, that he wouldn’t remain faithful to his commitment to us, his family.  He was our Daddy, steadfast and dependable, always there, not drawing attention to himself.  I couldn’t believe it when Mom called and told me about his eye problems.  I can’t imagine how hard it must have been as his sight diminished and then vanished.  Suddenly he couldn’t drive or cut the grass or even go to work.  He couldn’t see his stamps any more or all our family pictures.  But he didn’t complain.  He came to stay with us for a few weeks in England and we walked to school every day to pick up Chris.  He didn’t even complain when I let him walk into a pole.

​In my memory I can still see Daddy coming home after work, taking off his sunglasses, putting his keys on the shelf in the den, giving Mom a great long hug.  Sometimes I went over and hugged them both, and sometimes Daddy unclasped his arms from around Mom and drew me in too, holding us both close, squeezing me so tightly I could hardly breathe.  Such warmth I felt, such love, such security!  Those moments touched eternity.  God gave his faithfulness human form in Daddy’s life with us, and God let me feel his love, and Daddy’s, in the strong arms of my father wrapped around me.

2014:  Dad & Mom with Kate (standing), Jan, Lisa & Mimi (in front)

​We never talked about the faith, about Jesus, but the whole family always went to church.  It isn’t theology that gets you into heaven.  I often think of the story of the prodigal son.  All the lost son did was repent and turn toward home and his Father—our Father God—was running to meet him.  Running!  I want to think that after Daddy sort of ate his lunch with Mom and Mimi, after they left and the hospice nurse arrived and spoke with him, after she left, that Daddy laid his head back in the tilty chair he had just been settled in—he was so tired!—and Jesus whispered, “Come on home now, Jim, your room’s ready,” and Daddy left his worn out body, straightened up, opened his new eyes and walked together with Jesus into the beautiful eternal kingdom of life forever.

Jan & Maurice with Dad & Mom at the World War Two memorial