My Fun Dad

As I’m about to experience my first Father’s Day as a father, please allow me this bit of cyberspace to talk about “Dad.” Don’t worry, I’m not about to traipse over the cutesy, sleep-deprived, new-dad territory that so many have traveled on before.

I’m sure my experience is no different than most new fathers (except that my daughter rules!): wonderfully satisfying, weepingly joyous and at times, extremely scary. Instead, I’d just like to tell you about my dad, Donald P. Lyons (AKA “Big D”), and the various ways he made me laugh like hell throughout my life.

Picasso – When I was a baby, my Mom and Dad decided to move from North Jersey to the beach — Belmar, NJ, to be specific. In preparation, my dad decided to paint the house to make it more appealing and didn’t let his complete lack of painting experience and limited artistic skill get in his way. After the job was hastily completed, my uncle said a good lawn mowing would also be wise due to the 10- to 12-inch-high grass that covered our yard. Once the grass was mowed, it was quite apparent where the new paint ended — about a foot above the ground — leaving a sizable grass-shaped swath of old paint along the entire perimeter of the house. Live and learn. Speaking of paint, my dad once painted his brother Bill’s car while he was away in the service. It would have been better appreciated if he didn’t use oil-based house paint.

Fun Machine – In a very “Homer” moment (and I’m not talking about the early Greek poet) while our young family was Christmas shopping at the Seaview Square Mall, Dad was stopped in his tracks by a man playing a colorful keyboard with the greatest of ease in front of a music store. This was no ordinary organ. It was a grand concert of splendiferous sound emanating from a machine the size of a small upright piano. Built with the best technology the 1970s had to offer, this electronic melody-maker sounded like a whole orchestra replete with horns, brass, woodwinds and a killer rhythm section that played a wide variety of styles from the rumba to rock. With little to no piano playing experience, anyone could learn to play in just a couple hours and be the hit of the party! Or so the pitch went. It was quite awesome.

When we noticed the price tag was $1,200, we laughed knowing it was so ridiculously out of our price range (a bag of kazoos was a bit more realistic). We went on our way. except for Don. who lingered a bit with a dreamy smile on his face as if he was in some sort of trance. Don liked music and Don liked parties.

I’m not saying we didn’t have a lot of money at the time, but a plastic pinball machine, two worn green vinyl couches, a large, plastic palm tree and an entertainment unit built from cinder blocks and black spray-painted planks of wood were the highlights of our living room. So you would imagine my great surprise when my mom, brother D.J. and I discovered the wildly expensive “Fun Machine” — which costs about three times as much as the family car — was sitting next to the tree on Christmas morning. I don’t know how Donnie pulled it off and at the time, nor did I care! This thing ruled. We all went nuts. My dad was so proud.

A tale like this would usually end with the expensive impulse purchase being ignored as soon as we got bored with it. It would then gather dust in the garage (next to my old LiteBriteT with the word “FART” colorfully displayed on it), its faux ivories never to be tickled again. Everyone would laugh at Don and his rash purchase.

But no! The machine provided maximum merriment and was the hit of our parties for a solid ten years, with slightly sauced friends and family clamoring to take the helm and bust out some “Wait Til the Sun Shines Nelly” and “I’m Just Wild About Harry” sing-a-longs into the wee hours. Uncle Nick and his rendition of “Blue Hawaii” led the charge. The good ol’ Fun Machine still sits in our side room, entertaining my toddler niece Jess from time to time. Sure, Don could have been practical and used the money for D.J.’s asthma medicine or new windows that squirrels couldn’t scamper through, but where would the fun be in that?

Pleather Jacket – So you get the idea that we weren’t the Rockefellers, but we always got by and my pops would do his best to keep within our limited budget set up by my mom. My dad was a smart guy, a financial adviser, so despite some whimsical purchases, he knew the value of a dollar. Case in point, he bought a caramel-colored, fake-leather driving jacket for 6 bucks at the local Two Guys (a budget Wal-Mart) in Neptune City. 6 bucks! The new Sweet album (Desolation Boulevard) D.J. and I saved for and purchased the same day cost more. The poorly tailored piece of pleather was about as stiff and thick as a sheet of cardboard and Donnie wore the thing proudly for at least 5 years. before he became a fledgling member of the Members Only jacket club. He earned his epaulets.

Cement Court – My dad wasn’t the most “handy” fella in the world. While his brothers and other male relatives built impressive decks, additions and other manly creations, Big D was most comfortable using black electrical tape to remedy most repair jobs. He did not have a tool box, keeping his vast array of old screwdrivers and wrenches in a drawer in the kitchen instead. Some other tools could be found in the grass in the backyard for safe keeping. Anyway, after successfully putting up a backboard on our garage with the help of Uncle Frank (no Bob Villa himself), we all immediately noticed that dribbling a basketball on the bumpy grass below would be pretty darn lame.

“Hey, let’s play some b-ball at D.J. and Jeff’s house! They have this cool grass court with all these sharp, rusted tools you need to dodge while driving to the basket! It’s insanely dangerous and fun!”

After assessing the problem, my dad decided he would build a cement court himself. Knowing even less about masonry than painting, my dad bought about 10 giant bags of ready-mix cement, masonry tools and a bunch of two-by-fours to frame out our new massive court. After two full days of blood, sweat and toil and using up all the bags and his all his energy, he took a step back to behold the fruits of his labor: a sad, three-foot by three-foot piece of thin, uneven cement about 12 feet from the basket. “Geez, we might need a few more bags!” chuckled Don.

But we didn’t need more bags. Donnie needed to rest and to catch the end of a Mets doubleheader. The court was not finished that summer or any summer after. Occasionally, years later, when we were all in the back yard, D.J. and I would pretend to have a one-on-one game solely contained on the small patch of cement. My dad would laugh and gives us that “What the hell was I thinking” look. I loved that look.

Communion Photo – In sixth grade I had to write an autobiography for a class project. I gave it to my Mom and Dad to proof and they were a bit embarrassed by one of the photos I included. The photo showed me sitting on our front porch in a little blue denim leisure-style suit (which was fabulous), opening some gifts I received for my first holy communion. They weren’t embarrassed of my goofy mug (this time), but were aghast at the condition of the front porch. The porch was black, but many of the planks showed off bare wood and chipped paint. It was in desperate need of a new coat or two. Instead of being inspired to go paint the porch (which was probably still in the same condition four years later), my dad simply took out a black pen and colored in all the bare wood in the photo. Don then handed me the booklet, “Good as new!” Who needs Photoshop when you have a Bic?

Coffee – My wonderful mother Patricia was a nurse and worked most Saturdays when we were young, so Don took care of my brother and I. Saturdays were pretty busy and my dad needed to get us ready for our early soccer games. As I mentioned earlier, the windows in our house were old and drafty and let in their fair share of November coldness, so the mornings were a tad chilly at Chez Lyons. In an attempt to warm up 7-year-old D.J. and 6-year-old Jeff, Don gave us the warmest thing handy. a piping hot cup of coffee. No matter how much sugar or milk I put in it, I just couldn’t down it. D.J., on the other hand, took to the delicious hot caffeinated beverage like a ravenous lion eating a freshly killed gazelle. The majority of pediatricians might differ, but Don’s cure-all for coldness worked extremely well. D.J. was the warmest, fastest, most energetic kid on the field every Saturday. and well into Sunday.

Coaching Soccer – Speaking of soccer, my dad was a successful soccer coach. When Belmar was in need of soccer coaches, they asked my dad, who already coached baseball and basketball for the town’s recreation department, to lend a hand. My dad was a good athlete who loved baseball (he pitched a no-hitter in high school), so coaching another sport seemed easy enough. When Don was growing up in Newark, NJ, soccer was not the most popular sport. “Sissies in shorts who kick each other,” was how it was referred to by most. Not letting his ignorance of the game stop him, Don went to the library and perused a few books on the game. He was good to go. His style of coaching was unique. He found the best player on the team, 9-year-old George Parker, and pretty much let him run things, telling Don where everyone should play. Don just stood on the sidelines and yelled, “Go get ’em guys” and other words of encouragement. We came in first three years in a row.

Naps – Living at the shore, we’d have lots of company pop in all the time. This did not preclude Don from taking his beloved eye-closers when he deemed necessary. With a front porch teeming with friends and relatives from North Jersey and beyond, Don would excuse himself from his wicker chair and enter the house. After about an hour or so, some one might ask, “Where’d Don go? I thought he was getting me a beer.” But most knew where Don went and didn’t bother to ask. He’d reappear an hour or two later, refreshed and ready to enjoy the parade of people marching by the house.

German Beer – My dad was a Budweiser drinker. Once, when I came home from college with some friends, Don took me aside and said, “Hey, I was in the liquor store and I saw some German beer that was on sale so I got a couple cases for you and the guys.” He was very impressed with his purchase, as was I.. until I opened the fridge and saw two cases of Meister Brau with bright orange $7.99 price stickers. We drank the budget domestic beer (suppressing laughs) and thanked Don repeatedly for the treat. He didn’t touch the stuff.

Hitting the Boards – Some of my pals — Gowen, Yaz, Demarcs, Hewson, B.C. — were lifeguards in Spring Lake. My dad liked to jog the boardwalk in the town and yell out “Hi guys!” to the guards as he approached their stands early in the morning. The guards would look over their left shoulders, say “Hey Mr. Lyons” and turn back to staring at the ocean. 10 to 15 minutes later, they’d look over their right shoulder and see my dad only about 20 yards further down the boards from where they last spotted him. Don was the slowest runner in the history of human mobility. “Ya gotta pace yourself,” he would say half joking. I think he just liked to suck in the scenery. He always stayed a safe distance away from the rat race.

Driving Mr. Ziggy – For the majority of my life, we did not have the luxury of air conditioning. So the family spent a lot of time outside in the summer, except for our dog. Ziggy was an overweight beagle that was a bit difficult — not very affectionate, bad gas — and did not handle the heat well. The dog only really liked Don, and Don really loved that dog. When the heat would get into the 90s, my dad would load Zig into the car and drive around aimlessly just so the paunchy pup could enjoy the blasting A.C. in his face. That’s love.

Sadly, my dad died suddenly in 1996 at the age of 61. Nothing can prepare you for losing a loved one, especially a wonderful father who brought so much joy to all in his humble, low-key manner. The last time I saw him he was standing on the porch with Patty smiling and waving good bye to my friends and I as we drove off after a day of canoeing and barbecuing at the shore. I remember thinking, “Man, what a cute couple.”

I still miss him terribly, but retelling tales again and again helps me deal and keeps him close to me. Don Lyons was a normal guy with a great sense of humor who loved the Mets, the beach, Ireland, singing aloud and just taking care of his wife and boys. He was the best father a fella could have. So here’s to my dear old Dad, thanks pal! And to all my friends — D.J., Brian, Russ, B.C., Mike C., Nies, Parker, Williams, Linda, et al — whose dads passed away much too early, keep rehashing the good times. The stories never get old.

{This story was posted in March, 2005.}