Dad Daze: Looking at Christmas past with my father in order to move forward

While recently rifling through photos, I noticed my father Edward J. Condran Jr. sporting a “Ghost Dad” T-shirt. For the uninitiated, “Ghost Dad” is a forgettable Bill Cosby film from a generation ago. The shirt was one of the many promotional items I received during my radio daze. My dad thought the shirt was amusing and sported it occasionally.

That photo of him at the table with the kids he loved so much is so fitting since my father is no longer with us. I slipped into the melancholy zone, which is apparently common around the holidays, after glancing at the shot of my father with my children Jillian and Eddie draped all over him.

Stress and sadness seem to be as part of this season as eggnog and mistletoe. It’s understandable since it’s difficult not to look back to your childhood during the Christmas season and those who made such a difference in your life but are no longer present.

I’m thankful that my father became an octogenarian since he was well into his 40s when I was born. I grew up fearful that my father would not witness my high school graduation since his body was battered while working in construction and his diet was so poor he became a Type 2 diabetic when I was a child. Three of his younger brothers drank themselves to death while in their 50s.

However, my father wasn’t like his siblings. With the exception of an old bottle of a cobweb-covered Seagram’s 7 that was tucked away in the back of a cabinet, there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in the house.

My dad beat a number of demons, he told me, so he could experience as much of my life as possible and hopefully see his grandchildren. The toughest, most determined man I ever met became a grandfather at 75, and he reveled in the role in the last act of a life in which he gave far more than he received.

“Eddie, Jillian and Milo are my life,” my dad told me. “They are the greatest gift you will ever be blessed with.” Christmas was always a joyful experience with my parents, and it was passed along to my children.

The staples were Christmas Eve dinner, a feast of the seven fishes, followed by Midnight Mass. The next day, it was time for presents, an array of Polish delicacies and charming anecdotes of Christmas past delivered by my mother, who was always ready to wax about her hardscrabble childhood.

While staring at the photos of my father, I was inundated with Christmas memories. I recall strolling down the stairs when I was 4, and my father was behind a cherry red drum kit bashing away. I replicated that scene a decade ago purchasing a near-identical drum set.

What I remember most from my childhood Christmas experience was the platform that supported the Lionel train set my father constructed each year. The city of Plasticville was represented by an array of homes with cars and traffic lights dotting the wooden plank with a fake silver tree, which was illuminated by a revolving color wheel.

I remember hiding under the platform and playing with my cats as a child. The first couple of years, I re-created that Christmas scene, but I’ve been remiss over the last decade.

I could resurrect the train scene, but I can’t bring back my parents. However, they live on, courtesy of photos, video and endless stories. I laughed at the memory of Eddie in Tonka heaven! “Grandpop always gave me trucks,” Eddie said. “Trash trucks, fire trucks, dump trucks, recycling trucks. I loved the cement mixer. I remember playing with them, and all of a sudden I felt him behind me, and he would pick me up and set me on his lap.”

Eddie would fall asleep for hours on my father. I never understood how he would literally let my son rest on him for an entire morning. But then again, he survived four years in World War II and dealt with cold, wintry weather as he constructed buildings of all types.

“It’s fine,” my dad explained. “I love little Eddie. I’ll hold him now since I won’t be here forever. You know I’ll be dead and gone someday.” My father didn’t sugarcoat it. He mentioned his mortality often dating back to my childhood, so we were always aware that one day he wouldn’t be with us.

My dad is gone, but I swear that I feel his spirit. Anytime something seems so daunting for my children, I tell them that what they’re going through is nothing compared to what Grandpop grappled with during his long life.

I understand why anyone is melancholy during the holidays, but think of all the good late loved ones provided. It really is better to have love and lost rather than not loved at all.

My family will celebrate my mother’s and father’s memory over the weekend by reminiscing over the array of dancing Santas, the delicious Manna from my homeland, Chrusciki, and the endless array of photos of yours truly, which adorned the walls of my childhood home.

“Their house was like your museum,” Eddie said. “There were your photos, your artwork from your childhood. They even still had that gold, macaroni-shaped eagle on display.”

The bizarre decoration was a remnant from my scouting days. Leave it to my parents, who loved with all of their heart, to somehow appreciate the bizarre artifact.

But my mom and dad were all in as parents, and that had a profound impact on my parenting approach. I wish my parents were still here, but in a way, they are each holiday season since we wax about the positive impact they had on our lives.

The greatest gift for us each year is looking back at their lives since my mother and father helped propel myself and my children forward. Merry Christmas to you and yours!