(In honor of Father’s Day. An excerpt from One Heart with Courage: Essays and Stories.)
Father Jim Fitz carried his vestments into my family’s church on a humid July morning to help celebrate the life of my father, a man he had never met.
A longtime colleague of mine at the University of Dayton, Father Jim didn’t call the parish priest in advance. He simply showed up. The Marianists always seem to know when you need their gentle presence the most.
My 80-year-old father would have loved that, just as he would have gotten a kick out of the police officer solemnly saluting the funeral procession winding through the tiny town of Vandalia, Ohio, where my father built a business and a life and raised four children who will never forget him.
For all who knew and loved him, Fred Krimm was simply unforgettable. He was the “Godfather of Vandalia,” the patriarch of our family, a generous and gregarious soul.
He attended the University of Dayton for only one year before the U.S. Army drafted him to serve during the Korean War, so he learned about managing a small business the hard way — by doing. He ran an ice cream store in Vandalia for nearly half a century, and everyone in town knew him.
“He used to get gas at Sohio back in the day,” wrote Michael Criner on a Facebook page devoted to Vandalia memories. “(He) slid his credit card in the window and said, ‘How ya doing, Lucky?’ RIP, my smiling friend.” Another wrote, “Another stone in the foundation of our youth has crumbled.”
Others thanked him for giving them their first jobs. He gave me and my siblings our first paychecks, too. He taught us how to properly make and weigh creamy soft-serve cones and bake trays of huge soft pretzels. We knew never to ask for time off during the Dayton Air Show parade, the busiest night of the year.
When he learned that I was importing a husband from Pakistan, he uttered the infamous words, “I wish he had an oil well.” Then he proceeded to call him “son” for the next 30 years.
My dad was not a complicated man. By example, he gave his children a strong work ethic and showed what it means to take your wedding vows to heart. He couldn’t cook, do laundry or operate a microwave, but he stepped up and took care of our sick mother for a decade before she died nearly six years before him. He took her out to dinner and to get her hair done. He helped her to dress. He learned enough cooking skills to get by.
We feel blessed that he lived his life on his own terms right up to the last moment. He still barked orders from his chair at the Airline Dairy Creme every morning, still made the weekly trek to Lebanon, Ohio, to bet on the horses. A few weeks before he died, he joined us for a simple Sunday supper of hamburgers and corn on the cob. A friend brought her family and 85-year-old father, and, true to form, my dad chatted away with Mary’s dad as though they were best buddies.
It was a special moment that illuminated my father’s life. The man did not know a stranger. He created bonds instantly, and he was loyal to his family and friends. When waitresses, bank tellers — even a priest who never met you — pay their respects at your funeral, you’ve made a mark.
My dad lived a life worth celebrating.