My Dad

Mike McCarville

Dad’s been gone for 35 years. Died far too young, at 76, a year to the day after suffering a stroke.

Forty-four years he worked for Swift & Company. Started sweeping out a chicken coop, wound up as a plant manager and later, as the company’s top plant trouble-shooter.

Worked for Swift during the Depression. Twenty-five bucks a week. Had an almost-new car. Lived well. But he and Mom were so frugal their pennies screamed. Into this family came my three sisters and me.

My Dad was known as the man who could multiply six figures in his head and get it right every time. He could add columns of sums on a long pad in his head and get it right.

My Dad was eloquent but wasn’t talkative; he was almost professorial. He did have a great sense of humor and loved to recite Irish limericks from memory.

My Dad was a chain smoker.

My Dad was a devoted father.

I learned how to steer a car in my Dad’s lap.

I grew up reading newspapers in my Dad’s lap.

I learned how to eat sitting in my Dad’s lap.

I learned manners at my Dad’s insistence.

I watched my first television show with Dad on our new black and white tv set.

My Dad was my worst critic and my best friend.

I’ve tried to be the kind of Dad he’d want me to be.

I miss him still.