My Dad, James Framo

by Patty Framo Sommer

As a little girl I remember how soft and big my dad's hands were. He always had really short nails because he bit them to the quick. I loved how safe I felt when he held hands with me as we crossed the street, or how loved I felt when he used to cup my chin in his hand and stroke my hair. When I was sad, he used to hug me and say, "Aah, picad," which was slang in Italian for "Aah, what a sin." I also remember how safe but exhilarated I felt when my dad took me out on his shoulders into the ocean where the waves were really high, breaking over his head. For some reason this memory is so vivid and keeps popping into my head whenever I think of my dad.

Both my brothers' deaths, in 1961 and 1972, were life changing for our whole family, but especially for my parents. My dad never really got over the deaths of my brothers. One thing that is comforting is the hope that he is with them now.

Growing up, my dad made me feel as if I could do and be basically whatever I wanted. I battled with him throughout my turbulent teenage years, but he really worked at being a good dad. He encouraged me to sign up for shop class and to start my high school's first women's crew team. He bought me my first camera when I was 15 and set up a dark room for me in our laundry room. He was so excited when I chose to attend Penn State and kept saying, "Pat, these will be the most wonderful years of your life."

My dad had a very strong influence on my political views and my views of life. He was definitely a news junky and knew more facts and trivia than anyone I have ever known. His entire life, he would read the newspaper, Time Magazine and watch numerous news programs everyday. He especially loved Sixty Minutes and The McNeil/Lehrer News Hour. He could answer every question in Trivial Pursuit correctly. I always thought he should have gone on Jeopardy. But what was most striking to me was that he had such passion and strong feelings about whatever he read and discussed. I will never forget him yelling and shaking his fist at the TV when Nixon was on.

I didn't realize until after his death just how much I depended on him for framing my view of the world. I always looked to him for his response and then sorted my feelings out from there. When September 11 happened, my sister, his wife, Felise and I all had the same initial response: "I wonder what he would have said about this." On one hand I was glad he didn't have to experience it; on the other hand, I needed his reaction to begin to understand what it really meant and how I felt about it.

I inherited a lot of traits from my dad. I am a worrier and a yeller like he was, and also, like him, I pick up very easily on how other people are feeling. My love of movies, photography and sweets came from him. I think I have a lot of similar physical traits: his facial features, his thick hair, his complexion, his long torso, his hazel eyes and his bad back. I tell my kids I love them a lot, and I talk with them often about their feelings, like he did with me.

My relationship with my dad really deepened after I had kids and as he mellowed with age. I felt so supported by him as I learned how to be a mother. He frequently told me what a good mother I was and I hung on his every word. He really loved my kids as much as I do, and he shared my pride of how wonderful they are. Kalin and Jenny were very close with him, and whenever he called the first thing he said was, "How're my sweetie pies?" My daughters often spent the night at his and Felise's house and loved reading and playing games with him. He instilled in them a sense of history and politics, and modeled for them how to think about things on a higher level and understand people in a non-judgmental way.

Now that the reality of his death is setting in, I miss my dad in some ways more each day. I miss his laugh. I miss his leaving me a voicemail saying, "Hi, Pat, this is your dad," as if I wouldn't recognize his voice. I miss his stooped over walk. I miss being able to call him up and ask what he thinks about something. I miss his asking me what I think about something. I miss his movie reviews. I miss his relationship with my kids. I miss his spaghetti sauce. I miss his influence on my life. But in actuality, he does and always will influence my life. He certainly wasn't perfect, but in the ways that counted, he sure was a great dad.