MY FATHER'S IMPRINT

By Joan Framo Runfola

At my father's knees, I learned that one of the theories of family therapy states that the impact we make on a family reverberates through generations to come. If this is so, my father should be proud of the wonderful qualities he left to his children, grandchildren and to future generations of our family.

It was important to my Dad that he feel he was leaving a legacy to benefit future generations, particularly in the field of family therapy. But he was probably not aware of the other legacy he left, our family's most valuable inheritance—his sense of optimism and humanity, his playfulness and openness, and his commitment to hard work and fair play.

One of my fondest memories of my Dad are when I was a child and he would leave a small gift at the front door, ring the bell and run away. Being quite young at the time, it took awhile for me to catch on. He'd always say to me, "Is you is or is you ain't my diddy diddy Daddy girl?" and of course, I would reply that I was.

I owe my ability to write a decent sentence to my Dad, who when I was a teenager would painstakingly edit my papers so I learned how to craft my thoughts into words. It was also when I was in my teens that my dad began to cast the imprint on me that would become the foundation to sustain me through difficult times. Whenever I would tell him about a problem, after listening he would say, "You know, Dear, one usually finds out that, in the long run, things work out for the best." To this day, this maxim has gotten me through difficult times, and has imbued me with a sense of optimism and hope because, in hindsight, I have found these words to be so true.

Dad also left his legacy as a grandfather. He was committed to the role, and last year spent "Tuesdays with 5-year old Jenny" while my sister Patty (Jenny's mother) worked. It was important to Dad to convey an appreciation for history to his grandchildren. Almost weekly he read 11-year old Kalin excerpts from the Time-Life books about the last several decades, and when my twin sons Jonathan and David (now age thirteen) were visiting him in San Diego last year, he bribed them with a quarter per answer to memorize all of the states and their capitals. When we were out to visit him just two weeks before his death, my Dad shared with Jonathan and David, at their request, his most embarrassing moments, and recounted memories of WW II with my sixteen-year-old son Matt—photos and all.

A staunch Democrat, Dad seemed most alive when he yelling at Nixon on the television in the 70s, or railing on about George W. when he was first elected—this was because Dad was so strongly on the side of equality and justice, and for the rights of all, that to him it was obvious that the Democratic Party was the only way to go—he even went as far as telling his sisters and brother who to vote for.

Dad had much to overcome in his life, including facing brutal combat in Italy during WW II and the insurmountable and tragic loss of two sons, both of which haunted him to the end. But he was also blessed with a profession that was his passion, children and grandchildren who loved him, a close and supportive relationship with his sisters Vi and Eleanor and his brother Mike, an admiring extended family and a devoted wife, Felise, who cared for him in his final years.

Dad always looked for opportunities to tell you about all the things that he loved, so you never had to guess. He enjoyed jazz, Frank Sinatra, gardening, photography, traveling, his sisters' Italian food, Breyers vanilla ice cream, lemon cake, Penn State football (his alma mater), television (especially TV news), reading books and the newspaper, and watching movies.

In his final year or so, most of my Dad's vigor left him, except for occasional sparks when discussing politics or World War II. But it seems to me that his once brilliant fire burned away, leaving more room for his gentle, loving nature that was his true spirit, to shine forth. He will be greatly missed, but never forgotten, as he leaves his mark on both his current family and on generations to come.