Me, mom and dad, early 90s
Me, mom and dad, early 90s
Thomas H. Vickers 4/26/1918-5/4/2005
Those who knew my dad, Tom Vickers, knew he was a man of humor. As a matter of fact, when he sent me this picture, he wrote on the back of it "the 3 Stoges" (sic). Thus, I don't think it will be in bad taste to relay the following story. I was back in CT one day on a visit home and my dad and I went to the grocery store. He was one of those guys who seemed to know everyone in town. Sure enough, he ran into someone he knew while we were at the store. "Hey Tom, how are ya, you look good!" his friend said. My dad shot back, "yeah, I have a good embalmer!"
Tom Vickers was born April 26, 1918. I never knew his dad, my grandpa, but his mother, my grandma, Florence, was a role model to me, particularly as a traveler. Having lost her husband, she built a life for herself being involved in civic organizations and traveling around the country to take part in conventions and events. We gave her the nickname "Las Vegas" because of all her traveling. Dad met my mom during the infamous 1938 hurricane which hit the East coast. They married in January of 1943 and their marriage lasted 62 years. Their first child, my sister, JoAnn came along two years later. I didn't show up until 10 years after that.
We were a blue collar family in West Haven CT, which was predominantly Italian and Irish back in those years. My dad worked most of his life for a company which made roof scuttles and basement doors. He left in the 60s after 25 years to pursue an entrepreneurial spirit of being an independent door installer. Unfortunately, it was seasonal work, so he did go back to factory work and eventually retired.
We lived on 3 of the 4 sides of one block in West Haven. In 1965, we built and moved into our own home. Around that time in the 60s, we were experiencing a lot of firsts in pop culture: first color TV, first FM stereo radio, backyard swimming pools. Our hard working dad made sure we didn't miss out on having any of those things. So, if we weren't well off, we hardly noticed. We also were caught up in the groundswell of the Beatles, the British Invasion, the Motown sound, having the advantage of growing up in broadcast earshot of New York City, the home of the powerhouse radio stations and DJs. Dad wasn't a big fan of all that rock and roll, but when it came to doing something for us, he'd get in on the act. He called a radio station in a mock British accent to try to win us some tickets to the premiere of the Beatles movie "A Hard Day's Night". Alas, his acting was in vain--all he heard at the other end was a recorded message.
My dad was not perfect. His temper could at times be as legendary as his humor. I have memories of Christmas trees being flung down the cellar stairs in frustration...but like a passing thunderstorm, those storms never lasted. If ever you needed a dollar or a proverbial shirt off the back, dad would give it without a moment's hesitation. Right up until his illness went into its most advanced stage, he was trying to offer me money he no longer had. Some things never changed.
For a man who never graduated high school, Dad's advice was often good and instinctively correct. The things I learned from him, and the constant support and encouragement he gave me, served me well when I left the East coast and tried a one year experiment of total independence on my own in Minnesota...that "experiment" is now in its 16th year. That sharpness carried him, and us, up until he was about 80, when signs of the dementia appeared. Sadly we watched as a man who knew every penny he had couldn't handle money anymore and could not express himself logically. Yet, even as his illness progressed, I sensed that deep inside him somewhere was the belief that nothing had changed and he could do all the things he used to do. He was one tough cookie, hanging in right up until the very end of his earthly journey.
Go rest high, Dad. "See you at the house."
--Wendy V