Dads Are No Joke

They broke the mold. Seriously! Paul Anthony DeLeo was a one and only. He worked hard as an English teacher during the school year and an entrepreneur who ran a painting company through the summer. He married my mother when I was 5 years old, so technically, he was my stepfather. No one outside the family would have ever known this. Thanks to this man, the absence of my biological father was rarely felt. He taught me everything from how to clean smelt, child labor inequities, the value of electricity, food and water, and to always use proper English!

We had a home in rural, upstate New York across the street from a dairy farm. There were about 3 acres of lawn to mow over 2 small hills that backed to a pond and a small apple orchard. Thankfully, we were too young to operate the lawn mower but not too young to learn the value of 50 cents. My sister and I were paid 50 cents a bushel to carry the large stainless totes from where he filled them with grass clippings to where we dumped them in the weeds that surrounded his manicured oasis. My father used the phrase, "contributing to the family" whenever he invented a new chore for us. There were seemingly endless chores. I never looked forward to the handwritten list that would slide under the bedroom door on Saturday morning. These chores were to be completed before we became loud, wild children playing outside as to not disturb our mother. My absolute least favorite chore was during fishing season. My father and my uncle would bring home smelt by the bushel. Smelt is a very small fish. We were not allowed to use the knife, but once the bellies were sliced open, we were taught the proper technique of running our thumb straight up the middle to expel their insides. Our hands would smell for days, no matter how often they were washed! My favorite chore was to take off our shoes, wash our feet and stomp grapes in the large wooden barrels at our great grandfather's home. He was a quiet man who only spoke Italian but he was always smiling. It was great fun. My father used these grapes to make a wine he called "Dago Red". He stored it in our basement he nicknamed "The Dago Dungeon". This was his version of a man cave painted in red and black, complete with blacklights to make the red stones glow in the dimly lit space. I still have a bottle of it in my collection to this day. Our reward for our hard work in the spring and summer was the endless fun we would have in the winter. Our pond transformed into an ice rink and our two hills into the best sledding experiences as a kid. My dad would plow the snow to the top of the driveway and carefully cover it with water allowing it to freeze over while he checked the pond for safety before scraping away all of the snow so we could ice skate. Once he completed this ritual we were allowed to have our fun. He would give us a shove from the top of the man made ice mountain and we would fly over the two hills and glide all the way across the pond. The long journey back up to the top with our sled gave him time to consume an entire beer before our next run. We also had glorious bonfires with family and friends attending to roast hot dogs, snowmobile and have late night skates.

Dad was big on conserving electricity. If we left a light on upstairs, he would make us retrace our steps 50 times turning that light on and off to teach us the value of remembering to turn it off in the first place. When I think back, he was big on conservation in general. Every night, we gathered around the dinner table. We were required to try everything my mother had made. We were not allowed to leave the table until we had consumed everything on our plates. His favorite saying was, "There are starving children in India! Eat your food!" If we held out long enough we were rewarded by being sent to bed. My least favorite conservation memory is when he decided our pet rabbits were too much trouble. We were alerted to their demise after consuming what we were told was "barbecued chicken" at dinner one night. I'm not sure I ever recovered from that one! My favorite conservation memory was his insistence on conserving how long you talked on the telephone. I am showing my age to say we did not have cell phones and really aging myself to say we did not have caller ID, internal voicemail or call waiting. We had one phone that hanged on the wall in the kitchen. My father's way to remedy missing any important calls himself was to use a sand timer. Not an hourglass, I am talking about the one minute sand timers that came in a board game. He kept one on the counter by the phone. If he walked by and you were on the phone, he would flip the timer. When the sand ran out, if you were still on the phone, he would simply walk by and click the button at the top of the receiver immediately disconnecting you. No warning, no "say your goodbyes", just "click" conversation over. At 16 I was rewarded with a special birthday present. He had a phone installed in my room with my own phone number, so I was allowed to talk as long as I wanted, unless I was grounded.

I was grounded a lot. It wasn't easy being a high school student in a small town where your father taught. The only plus was the other teachers loved me, so they did give my father a hard time if my punishment was a little harsh. One time, I gave my father a dirty look because he wouldn't let me do something (I cannot to this day recall what that was). He told me to get that look off my face or I would be grounded. I accentuated the look and dared him to go ahead. He simply said, "Consider it done." I was grounded for 6 months. Since this would have encompassed prom, my entire summer vacation and football season, my favorite teachers negotiated my punishment down to 30 days. My Dad was also known for the "everything has a place" rule. Even my mother was not immune to this one. She once left her shoes at the front door instead of putting them in the garage. He promptly filled them with mustard. She was ready to kill him but we were not allowed to witness the conversation that took place over that move. He was a stickler for following the rules unless he was the one expected to follow them. He broke the dress code mold at school by refusing to wear a suit. He had his hair permed in an afro and bought himself a chopper motorcycle wearing jeans into school in rebellious fashion. When gas prices went crazy, he started the "red ribbon brigade." He tied red ribbons to the antennas of people's cars so the gas station attendant was aware they would be paying in pennies. He drove around with bags of pennies for weeks torturing every gas station he could. Once, when my mother got a speeding ticket, he represented her in court even though he was not an attorney. He ended up sticking his tongue out at the judge before leaving the courtroom when she was ordered to pay the fine. You can't make this stuff up! My senior year of high school he was having a particularly difficult time with the administration. In his defense, he was trying to form awareness for what he had discovered was a drug problem forming in a small segment of our students. In exchange for his concern, they had taken away his film making class which he absolutely loved. He had even held an "academy awards night" for his students and their families where they showed their films and handed out awards based on their merit. He became so disgusted with our principal that when it came time for spring break, he left a sign on his classroom door that read, "Gone fishing and painting. Will not return." This was how he retired from teaching. He was rewarded by losing his tenure. You can imagine what it was like to finish out the school year and graduate in a small class of 250 students when your father pulled a stunt like that!

Right after graduation, we packed up everything and moved to Florida. He did not have a job and we did not have a house. It was quite the horrific adventure. He planned to run his paint company full time. We found a house we would rent to own. Once we got rid of the pet feces, the fleas, the roaches and soaked the bathtub to the point of draining, we were ready to move in. That house became known as "The house on Henry" where my father took care of many a vagabond. Strangers and people down on their luck were my father's specialty. He had a special place in his heart for all of them. His painting company ended up being quite successful. My parents lived in that home for the rest of their lives.

There are many people who will read what I have written and feel my dad was super tough. I would not argue that. What I have not adequately portrayed is how equally wonderful he was. He was gregarious. His personality filled the room. You either loved him or you hated him. There was no in-between. I could tell a million stories of how tough he was but a million more that describe his generous heart and loving nature. He was not a "warm fuzzy" dad, but you always knew how much he loved you without question. When he was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2008, it was the most devastating experience of my existence. I am forever grateful that I was at a place in my career where I was able to spend a great deal of time with him and my mother that year of his illness even though many miles separated our homes. We did not have enough time. He was 67 years old. We had one year from diagnosis to death. I could write an entire novel on that year alone. We laughed and we cried. We left nothing unsaid. His legacy lasts a thousand lifetimes. No one who knew him will ever forget him. His laughter, his sense of humor, his generosity, his pain in the ass, devil's advocate way of looking at everything - he loved a good debate! He touched more lives than we will ever know. He was my father in every sense of the word and I loved him with my entire soul. I miss him EVERY SINGLE DAY.