NOVEMBER 10, 1970

The date still makes me shudder. Every November 10 is a mini funeral for me. My dad died on November 10, 1970. He was only 47 years old.

My dad woke up that morning around 6:30am and proceeded through the work day like so many others. He probably drank his Sanka, ate some oat meal, locked the apartment on 10 W. Superior and crossed the street to his metallic green Chevy station wagon. It was parked right behind the Schappert’s house on Humphrey Ave. in Oak Park. I’m still in touch with the Schapperts via Facebook.

Driving on his way to the truck parked at his store on Fullerton Ave, he was mentally planning the route for the day. He was mathematical in his planning of deliveries of janitorial supplies, collections of debts from customers who couldn’t pay cash at the time of the delivery, and finally of prospective customers. He stopped in to see Mac, Miss McNamara, who handled all his calls in her small office that always smelled of cats. The elderly Mac always laughed at his jokes and sent him on his way. Since there were no cell phones, he would stop at a phone booth and make his calls.

At the store, he loaded up the supplies he was to deliver that day: 55 gallon drums of concrete cleaner, cases of bleach, assorted mops, brooms, toilet bowl cleaners. He used to load the truck alone unless he saw someone hanging around who needed work. Willy McBride was one of his truck loaders from the old days. Willy always called me “young blood” and he and my dad would joke together until both were ready to cry. The amount my dad paid Willy was enough for him to eat for the day, and buy a little wine on the side.

He proceeded on the route and always made time for each customer. With foreign customers, he might speak a little Cantonese at a laundry, a little Greek or Spanish or Italian at a restaurant or dry cleaner or grocery store or a gas station. After a few deliveries he would stop at another phone booth to check in with Mac.

For lunch, he probably stopped off at Margie’s for an Italian Beef if he was near Cicero and Augusta avenues. If not, he knew where every beef or Vienna hot dog joint was that paralleled his route. The afternoon was more of the same and he started to wind down a hard work day.

He had a date with Donna, his fiancée, that evening and he was probably thinking of time with her. First, he would stop off at Shabbona Park for a jog. He had just earned his 1,000 Club Card celebrating his 1,000 miles of jogging. Jogging cleared his head and brought him back to his amateur boxing days. “Road work” back then consisted of all the training he needed to win. Today, road work meant the workouts needed to stay healthy.

He had already completed a mile when he felt a tightness in his chest which forced him to his knees. It was already dark and he didn’t see anyone around who could help. It wouldn’t have mattered. It was his first and only heart attack. He died at 6pm. Donna would wait wondering where her date was.

That same day, I woke up at 310 Thompson Hall on the campus of Western Illinois University at 6:30 am. It was Tuesday and I had just talked to my dad on Sunday. I took the elevator up to the 18th floor and had breakfast: a couple of eggs, bacon, toast, juice, and a Coke, but no Sanka. I hated coffee. I talked to my floor mates, reminiscing about the “Laker” we had on Saturday where we went to the lake nearby drinking beer with girls on our laps. I had a girl on my lap but I didn’t drink beer. Still don’t.

I headed off to Elementary Accounting where I was struggling to keep up. Professor Smith had learned that everyone in the class had already completed Accounting in high school, so he went at a faster pace. I hadn’t! At Fenwick, instead of taking Business Law, I had studied German. I worked super hard because my dad wanted me to be his accountant the next summer. That was motivation enough to work hard. It was my “road work.”

After Accounting I had World History with Professor Leonard. It was a class I loved, plus Kathy Mattson was in the class sitting next to me. Professor Alsip sat in front of me in Intermediate French in a miniskirt. I fought to keep my mouth closed and limit my drooling. Prior to WIU, I had never ever been in a class with women before. Twenty-five years later, she would attend my presentation at The Georgetown Roundtable on Languages and Linguistics when I was an associate professor.

At 5pm, I went to the union study room where I could study to the Moody Blues. I stayed until 6, then off I went to dinner at Thompson Hall. Something didn’t feel right, but I shook it off. Later that night, I dreamed that my dad died. It would be the only time in my life where I exhibited ESP.

Early Wednesday morning, my cousin Herb called my dorm room. “He died, didn’t he?” He came up to my room and helped me pack. Uncle Chris and Uncle Tony were waiting in the car. It would be a long drive back to Chicago. No one spoke. I was in shock. I had yet to cry. It would be a few days before I would.

In French class, we had been reading Camus’ The Stranger at the time of my dad’s death.

Aujourd’hui maman est mort.

Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.

“Mom died today. Or maybe yesterday. I can’t be sure.”

Literary critics argue that the main character, Meursault, is insensitive to his mother’s death. I always thought that he was stunned like I was and have been for nearly the last half century.