Over the past few weeks, I've been thinking about what my father brought to my life, what is missing, and what lives on.

My father always spoke well of others.  Whenever he would tell me about someone I hadn't met, or update me on a family member or friend.  He would always talk - almost boastfully - about their strengths and their accomplishments.  You would think they deserved a Nobel prize.  When he would introduce me to others he would do the same thing in his descriptions of me and my accomplishments.  It was a little embarrassing, but looking back now, he was always in my court.  He always believed in me.  He always spoke kindly to me, was supportive, and was compassionate when the inevitable times of suffering came. 

I would do well to be more like him.

3) Bonnie still lives through her amazing daughter Linda, and I trust though her other children and grand children.  I trust that the best of my father still lives in me.  I want to be a kind, wise, affectionate man.  I see my father in my sons, though they are not very aware of it.
Life is like a home just off the beach.  The tide comes in and out.  The sun comes up and goes down.  There are beautiful days, dreary days, and sometimes dreadful days.  There are seasons of beautiful weather and periods of storms.  Like the beach, not everyday is sunshine, clear water, and gentle seas.  So it is with people.  Few are all bad or all good.  I am grateful for the beauty of the image of God that I got to see through my father and his love for his bride.  If I could buy a ticket to travel back in time I would.  One more evening at Tiebels.  One more time to see him hold Bonnie’s hand.  I think my father would tell me to use that time and money to make new memories with the people in my life now.  To savor the sights, tastes, smells and touch of now.  Recognize the gifts in this day, with gratitude for the memories of the yesterdays.  There are special people and special moments now.  They are not all good or all bad, but treasures to be savored nonetheless.
I love you father.  I miss you.  If you come back, I’ll treat you to Tiebels.

“With money in your pocket, you are wise, handsome, and you sing well too.” Yiddish proverb.

2) When he died two years ago, I received the letters I had written to him as a teen.  Letters on paper, handwritten in ink.  It is hard to believe that this is such a different time now.
Last week, I was in Chicago for my Aunt’s memorial service. I drove around the east side.  I drove by the building where The East Side Bootery - my father’s shoe store used to be.  I stayed in a motel in Munster.  Ate at Tiebels with my sister.  Tiebels was his favorite restaurant.  I also ate at Schoops - the store front restaurant that I knew as a kid before Schoops became a franchise.  The burger and malt was as I remembered it - amazing.  I drove by the building that used to be the Koester-Brown Insurance agency where Bonnie, my step mom, and the apple of my father’s eye, had worked.  I couldn’t remember which Chinese restaurant that Bonnie and I went to when her and my father lived there, so I didn’t get to visit it.  My father didn’t like Chinese, so when I would visit, she and I made up for lost time by binging on Chinese lunches.  Bonnie was one of the most amazing people I have ever known.  Intelligent, witty, humble, quick witted, and the maker of one of the seven wonders of the world - oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.  My father treasured Bonnie.  That was quite fitting, because she was a treasure.
Last week, Tiebels wasn’t the same without my father and Bonnie.  The food was great.  The service was outstanding, but somehow the light was different.  A glimmer was missing.  The many evenings we had at Tiebels are past.  Like uncatchable fireflies they are here but not here.  I can hear the conversation.  I see my father holding Bonnie’s hand, warmly smiling, looking in her eyes and admiring her, enjoying her, appreciating her.  Those moments are eternally real, but I can’t walk into the restaurant, over to the table and see it again.  Those moments in time will never happen again.

I believe I was 12 or 13 when I met my father.  My mother was recently divorced from her second husband, whom I had always known as my dad.  After the divorce, she told me I had been adopted and asked me if I would like to meet my father.  

My adopted dad, my mother, my father, their siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family members all lived on the east side of Chicago.  It seems odd to associate the 2nd largest metropolis in the United States with a neighborhood where everyone knew each other.  The east side was a small community.  That was where my father and mother met.  That is where I was born.
My father was the oldest of 5 - two brothers and two sisters - each about two years apart. My mother was 10 years younger than her only sibling, my Aunt.  My mother lost her father when she was two.
My mother and father married before I was born in 1963, and divorced a couple years later.  She remarried shortly thereafter, and we moved to Florida.  I was adopted by her second husband before my 5th birthday, about the time my sister was born.  They divorced when I was 11, and not long thereafter, my aunt spoke to my mother about me meeting my father.  My mother spoke to me, explaining things in an age appropriate way, and I agreed.  The following summer, I and my sister flew to Chicago.
I assume it was on the east side, I remember brick buildings nearby the bench we sat on when my father came up to see me.  I didn’t know what to feel.  It was like meeting a nice stranger.  Was I happy?  Did I want to cry?  I’m not sure, but my aunt started crying, and I did too.  He was warm and kind, something I would discover was typical for him.
We corresponded by mail, and the following summer, my sister and I returned, and stayed with him and his second wife Barb for a week or so.  Barb was a nice lady.  My father was interested in me and my sister, and was as generous as he could be with his time and affection.  

OBITUARY

Damian Joseph Kraska

December 18, 1943 – April 26, 2021

Mariposa Gardens Memorial Park & Funeral Care

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