Remembering a Man of Few Words, Abiding Love

It’s Father’s Day and life is good.

My daughter will graduate--or, as they call it, she’ll be “promoted”--into the seventh grade this week. I live and work in a beautiful county, have a wonderful wife and even a (very) limited view of the Channel Islands from my Conejo Valley home.

I won’t get breakfast in bed this morning. Nor flowers. No candy and no sappy, hand-written poetry.

I’m a dad on Father’s Day, and the rules are different.

There was talk of yet another tie, perhaps some cologne, but I think my wife nixed both those ideas. Surely I’ll get a greeting card, and I know I will have a delightful day.

The only thing missing is the chance to brag a little to the one guy who counts most: my father.

This time of year I think about him a lot. You see, we haven’t spoken in 10 years.

As in almost every family, there were good times and bad times over the years.

I’ll always remember when he told folks at a party how proud he was of his then-17-year-old son, and how he was looking forward to sending me to the University of Michigan.

But the following year, when time came to fill out financial aid applications, bad news hit: His retirement would have to be postponed--he just didn’t have enough money set aside. That meant he also didn’t have enough to send me to the Big Ten powerhouse.

Thank God for scholarships.

Like a lot of fathers in his generation, Pelham Griggs Sr. wasn’t the most expressive of people, especially when it came to his emotions.

This summer’s biggest movie, “Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace,” makes me think back to 1977, when I thought an ideal Father’s Day present would be to let my dad experience the hippest movie of the year.

After the thrilling victory of Luke, Han and Princess Leia over the Evil Empire, all my dad--in his typically understated way--said was: “That was OK.”

The second part of his present was to take him over to a Father’s Day sale at the local men’s clothier. I helped him pick out a conservative yet stylish three-piece gray pinstriped suit that I paid for. As we got into the car he turned to me with a grin and said: “Thanks.”

As I was saying, a man of few words.

Dad had gotten out of the habit of attending church every Sunday by then. And he’d become less active as an officer of his United Auto Workers local, so he didn’t get much chance to wear the new threads.

The next year, though, he made sure to put on the suit at least once. It was time for my college graduation and he wanted to look nice. Sure, he could only fit the jacket by then, but he wore it nonetheless. It made me proud.

I think he was proud of me, too. But that’s the sort of thing an “old school” dad like him just wouldn’t verbalize.

But there are the other memories of growing up in Detroit. Like our family’s regular Sunday visits to Belle Isle, an oasis in the middle of the Detroit River that remains a getaway for everyone within an hour’s drive.

Then there was the time my father was forced into duty as “Mr. Mom.” It was shortly before dusk, and I hobbled into the house with my foot joined to a wooden board by a twisted nail.

He stopped shaving, removed the nail, cleaned the wound and bandaged me up. He calmed me down and let me know it would be all right. It was.

And there are my two favorite photos of Dad. One I took during a college photography class. I caught him in a rare moment, stretched out on a chaise longue during a family barbecue with a Cheshire cat grin. Another, taken years later, in my apartment. He was older, thinner and in ill health. But again he was smiling--this time into the face of his 6-month-old granddaughter, who will be 12 this fall.

I’ll never forget how at the end of one post-college return visit, after everyone else had given me a cheerful goodbye, my Dad came out on the porch with tears in his eyes. All we could do was hug each other. Words weren’t necessary.

Our last visit together was Father’s Day 1989. I had returned home for a brief stopover en route to a speaking engagement at a conference. I had reached a milestone in my career, and I was riding high for the first time.

It’s when you feel you’re on top that you want to reconnect with your father. Just once to get a sincere congratulations, that unconditional admiration you crave. But alas, no luck.

Diabetes, arthritis, heart problems and advancing age had all conspired to place my father in the hospital. He had been there before, but this visit was worse. He was in a coma.

Since he couldn’t speak, I did the talking for both of us. I wished him a happy Father’s Day. I told him how much I loved him. How earnestly I wanted him to wake up, get better, go home. I prayed over him and told him everything would be all right.

I kissed him on the top of his bald head, as I’d done so many times before. I fought back the tears on my way to the train station.

Two days later, while celebrating the successful conclusion of my seminar, I was contacted at the hotel by my mother, who asked me to return home. My father was dead.

“When?” I asked incredulously.

“Right after you left,” she said.

I only saw Dad one time after that. At the funeral. In his casket.

As usual, I did the talking. And the crying. This time, I wasn’t alone.

Though I enjoy Father’s Day as much as any guy with a child, for me the holiday also brings a twinge.

I’ve forgiven him for the things he left unsaid. Like every man, he was by no means perfect. For him, always being there--like a rock--was his best. And that’s OK.

As a father myself, I would love to tap into his wisdom. To get my dad to explain how to anger slowly and always be quietly in control of any situation.

Oh, I forgot to mention. On the day he was laid to rest, the last thing he wore was that gray pinstriped suit I’d bought him. It fit again. He looked good, too.

It made me proud.

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Gregory W. Griggs is a Times assistant city editor. His e-mail address is greg.griggs@latimes.com.