June 28, 2025
Cal's Celebration of Life
The Burren Backroom, Somerville
I know every girl thinks her dad is a hero, and my dad was mine. It wasn’t just all the times he stopped to help someone who needed jumper cables or to unlock a car with keys trapped inside (annoyingly seemingly always when we were in a rush to make a movie), or the way he was so strong he could lift me above his head with one hand. (I still remember what it felt like to be suspended up there, perched like a bird, surveying my friends' astonished faces.) It wasn’t even the way he could outrun a greyhound or hit a home run in a pickup softball game. It was the way he always showed up when you needed him, with soup when you were sick, with a ride when you were stranded, with a joke when you were down. It was the way that he stayed gentle when life taught him to be rough, always telling me he loved me and was proud of me and giving me a kiss on the forehead.
Don’t get me wrong, my dad was at home in a fight, and had many a story of how he punched somebody or flushed their head down the toilet or maybe just pinged them with a BB gun. But he was as comfortable cradling a baby as he was a power tool, and children flocked to him. He was always the fun dad who let you play with squirt guns in the house, who loved dodgeball, who let you blast JAMN 94.5 out his car windows or who took a “bat turn” so wide we would be falling over each other in the backseat. He was the one who always felt like cooking you a meal. When I was a kid it was steak and chicken and collards and mashed potato with corn and cornbread on the side. As an adult it was veggie chili or fritters or a perfectly seared veggie burger with kale. He would joke “where’s the meat” but always made that quote, “veggie stuff” taste better than I ever could.
My dad took pride in being competent. Whether it was throwing a frisbee or hanging a painting or calculating the perfect way to configure a stage set, he took pride in everything he did. And he never stopped learning. My dad studied or had certificates in all the following:
economics
auto body repair
electrical engineering
airplane mechanics
flying airplanes
carpentry
locksmithing
bartending
pouring concrete
flying helicopters
And yet when it came to me, he had no list of things he was pressuring me to achieve or timeline by which he wanted me to do it. Whoever I was was good enough. He was the kind of dad that met you where you were and offered unwavering support, giving you a solid base from which to improvise. My dad didn’t know the DSM-5 from a DVD player, but he made sure that whatever I was going through I was safe, fed, and aware of just how much he loved me. At times of crisis he was my beacon in the dark, cracking jokes about the gorilla who learned sign language or the guy with the shovel or the monkey trying to put the plug back in. (If you haven’t heard any of these, I’ll spare you the punchline, but rest assured that he cracked himself up in the telling.)
My dad loved to laugh and was the life of many a party. Some of his favorite expressions included “it is to laugh” and “who needs a job when it’s sunny.” A seasoned storyteller, he could make any tale last, oh, half a day at least. One of the greatest gifts he gave me was a set of cassette tapes of him narrating stories from his childhood, all in his deep, soothing baritone. (For all interested parties, these will be available as MP3s on the website we created.) Listening to them, I am taken back to childhood nights, when I would fall asleep to him growling out the lines to Treasure Island or perhaps some Romantic poetry: “The highwayman came riding— Riding— riding…”
Having bridged two cultures, my dad was the child of many influences, not just the English poetry he could recite or the reggae he DJ’ed for 12 years at WMFO. He loved classic movies, making sure I was familiar with kid-friendly ones like We’re No Angels or Bringing Up Baby. He adored sci-fi in all its iterations, and was often known to say “Klaatu barada nikto” in salute. He took me to see every Schwarzenegger blockbuster. He blasted “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me” at ear-splitting decibels from his car. He couldn’t resist a cartoon but was often seen around town head-to-toe in his favorite color, black. Somehow the result of this mash-up was a well-rounded, interesting person, who could do his crossword puzzle in pen. “Your dad is a cool guy,” said literally everyone upon meeting him for the first time. I agree: he was the coolest.
I’m terrified of losing my cherished memories of my dad, but there are some I doubt will fade. My dad tucking me into his jacket on a rainy day, safe and warm and immersed in the smell of leather and menthols. His signature duck-footed strut, attained as a kid by dribbling a soccer ball down the street. His gleefully announcing “Bedtime for Bonzo!” every night when I was due for bed. A jubilee roll at Friendly’s every Wednesday. Playing catch in the park. Playing catch at the beach. His warm dry hands, strong and gnarled like tree branches, once so nimble but later refusing to work right after many years in the trades. One of the last memories I have is holding those hands, still so much “him” even after the rest of his body was shutting down.
To quote one of my dad’s heroes: “this world is rough, and if a man’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough.” Thanks for teaching me to be “rough and tough,” dad. I’ll try to make it without you. I couldn’t do it if you hadn’t also taught me to be gentle and kind, loyal and true. Goodbye for now to someone who loved life, and made it count. Love you forever.