Professor Paul Lazarovich’s long-running Cranberry Country Moment newspaper column is seen by residents in the thirteen town area of Southeastern Massachusetts he warmly describes as Cranberry Country

It's been a little over a year since my Mom passed away. A December day - a few weeks before Christmas - that has forever changed how my Dad will think of life and what once was the most happiest of holidays.

It certainly has changed how I look at him - and life.

My dad. The fashion statement.

My Dad is 74-years-old. A lot grayer on top, but still sporting his "whiffle," the only hairstyle he's ever worn. In fact, I chuckle as I type this, because my Dad and the term "style" have never been associated with one another.

My Dad wore white socks for just about every occasion and season. Never knowing what to get him - the man who never asked for anything and who wished for even more of that for his birthday and Christmas - I knew I could never go wrong by buying him a three-pair package of men's white work socks.

"Thanks. Plain white, no stripes," he'd say in a direct, assured tone that sounded like James Bond ordering his "Please. Shaken, not stirred," martini.

Geesh, I don't think he ever wore the leisure suit Mom bought him. That was back when most of his lunch pail co-workers - those guys who hated suits and ties - got dressed-up only for the "Two W's:" wakes or weddings. The tie-less, wide collar leisure suit satisfied their wives' attempt to stylize their husbands, while the guys were simply thrilled at not having to wear a tie and button their size 18 1/2 inch collar for the wedding of second cousin Louise's daughter's over at the VFW.

But what I learned from Dad's lack of style and interest in seasonal sartorial splendor was that it wasn't how you looked or what you wore. Your words and actions spoke of the kind of person you were. Show me; don't tell me. A gruff lesson, but one that still helps me distinguish between those who can walk the walk, and those who merely talk.

My dad. Silent provider; family first.

For all of my youth, I thought that it was perfectly normal for a father to work two, three jobs. More so, I realized that he never complained. Not once did I ever hear Dad utter a word about having to rush off to a second job, after sitting with us during our 4:30 p.m. supper.

Nor did I think it out of the ordinary that he'd also work some Saturdays. Sometimes I'd accompany him. I thought it was cool to sit up front on the slippery leather bench seat - right next to my Dad as he commandeered the big truck while we made deliveries to exotic, far-away places - like Worcester and Route 2.
Braces got paid for, clothing got bought, food was always on the table, and three kids got a healthy start in their education - eight years at Sisters' school, high school and then of to college - so we wouldn't have to work two, three jobs.

Family first. Do what must be done to make sure that your kids won't have to do what you did.

"He probably didn't have a lot of time to take the kids to ballgames or tuck them in for bed-time stories back then," is what you're probably thinking. Well, you're correct.

But it was a different era then. A time when a family was provided for by the silent, never-flinching, John Wayne type. They graduated from high school, went into the military, got a job, married the girl next door, raised a family. Guys who served as the role model for a generation of other dads. The result was that he - and I - didn't know any better. Yet in his simplistic efforts to make a better life for Mom, me, my sister and brother, I knew at a very young age that Dad was giving his one hundred percent. His way. He was following his dad's - and mother's - belief that "you do for the family."

Like my dad, I know that I would do anything for my family. So that my kids will hopefully be provided with even more than I have.

My Dad today. Grandpa.

With the arrival of my two daughters, Dad has taken on his most relished role. And with the passing of Mom, it has become the only thing that momentarily brings back his spirit. For dad, it's Meaghan and Shannon - "his girls" - who change his stoic expression, who can make him smile.

I watch him now when he's with his girls. No, actually I study him - taking them for an ice cream and laughing as he informs the girls that he's lost; showing our oldest how to throw a softball windmill-style, and supplying them with lottery tickets - telling the girls that when he hits for a million he's going to take them to Disney World.

When he says goodbye, I watch closely. I notice he gives them a hug that's a bit tighter and lasts a bit longer. And he plants a kiss on them that originates from deep within his heart. I also notice that he takes in their sweet smell, their warmth and feeling of joy, and he revels in their youth - of having their entire lives ahead of them.

For that brief time it helps him escape. To forget that Mom - his best friend, his only girlfriend and wife for over 50 years - is no longer there with him.

My Dad. I learned what real love meant.

I'm contemplating showing this article to my dad. I know that he will leave it on his kitchen table, letting a few days pass before he even picks it up and finally reads it.

Later, when I call him to talk sports and see how he's doing, I'll throw in a quick "what d'ya think about the article, dad?" And he'll reply. In very few words, void of emotion, "Ah Paul. Now why did you write this? What do you mean by this?

I’ll think of my two girls, my wife, our family; I'll emotionally reply. "Because I wanted to say thanks for the lessons learned by me, taught by you…."

"My dad.”