The Original Junior
I'm Michael Christopher — Mike's firstborn and only son. My grandfather was also named Michael (middle name Joseph), and Dad's middle name being Francis. This meant I answered to "Junior" for years. Three Michaels deep. No longer a junior myself, and the last of the trifecta.
In old photos, before he was anyone's dad, he looked like he'd stepped out of a movie as the leading man: tall, dark and handsome with a huge beaming smile, stylish dress and a contagious laugh. His looks, and the hot hair stylist that cared for them, made a lasting impression on many. Maybe that's why he made fun of my hair all the time?
The Last of the Lights-On Boomers
They say that when the Boomers go, there'll be nobody left who actually knows how to keep the lights on. My dad spent 40 years as living the proof — working at a power plant that kept electricity flowing to buildings all over downtown Chicago. He never missed a single day of work, and he was always the guy everyone called first when something broke. With Dad's passing, the Boomer prophecy is a bit closer to reality.
Family, Before My Time
I never met my dad's mother — she died before I was born. His father held on just long enough to meet me as a baby, then passed away later that same year. So Dad spent the rest of his life outliving both parents by decades, and he carried that quietly. He didn't talk about it much, but you could see it in how he showed up for everyone else — as if he had decided his family would never be without a parent looking out for them.
Greatest Hits: A Highlight Reel
Some of my favorite memories of Dad:
- Throwing the baseball back and forth
- Sharing a love of spicy food — peppers, tacos, Italian sausages, no regrets
- Standing on the sidelines (or hanging back in the shadows) at every single one of my sports games
- Teaching me to drive, then helping me buy my car, then doing the maintenance on them
- Slipping me money on the sly whenever I needed it, no questions asked
- Being there for me during my testicular cancer, and after beating it, turning to me and saying, "Time to get busy" — his way of telling me I still have a chance at my own family
The Secret Genius
Dad never went to college, though he easily could have studied anything he set his mind to. As a kid, I used to throw bigger and bigger multiplication problems at him just to see if I could stump him — I never could. He fired back answers like a human calculator. He also had a habit of hustling people at games: quiet, unassuming, and then suddenly crushing everyone at Trivial Pursuit or word games when you least expected it. Did it originate from being a pool hustler in his youth?
The Soundtrack in the Car
When I was little, we'd cruise around with the Doobies, Phil Collins, Sade, Steely Dan and that weird Pablo Cruise tune "Love Will Find the Way", blasting on the radio, and every so often he'd sing (and dance?), while driving. This was back before seatbelts and car seats were mandatory, and I still remember him throwing his arm across me to stop me from flying forward — first in his red (or was it yellow?) Volkswagen Beetle, and later in the Chevy Blazer.
Quiet Pride
When I was about to turn 16 and start my first job, Dad took me to the Sears shoe department to pick out a good pair of black work shoes — the kind you'd expect to see on someone in the military. We bought them, brought them home, and he sat me down and taught me how to clean and shine them properly. It was never really about the shoes. It was the same quiet pride and work ethic woven through everything he did — the plant, the family, how he carried himself, all of it.
Always There
In the final moments, I was there for him, and hope that it was the way he was always there for me. It's strange knowing I will only see him as a memory instead of him always being around. The best of Dad lives on in his children and grandchildren — that part, at least, doesn't end.