The American Heritage Dictionary defines the word tradition as “the passing down of elements of a culture from generation to generation especially by oral communication.”

June 27th, 2024 marked the 26th year since the passing of my dad. Throughout the years, I have marked that day, with a tradition. It is a subject of which I’ve written about here a number of times, but never in this vein, for this year I shared the tradition with Dad’s great-grandson, Owen.

He’s seven. He’s a bright little fella with a wildly curious mind. I think it’s safe to say that he’s a “certifiable sports nut” Not a surprise really, his dad’s an athlete and is now a volleyball coach, his mom and aunt were College All American Volleyball players, and his older brothers are soccer enthusiasts. He has an uncle who coaches baseball, another who coaches soccer, an aunt who coaches swim, another who’s been a volleyball coach, a cousin who plays college volleyball, another who will be swimming in college next year, cousins who are playing varsity soccer and, well you get the picture. Suffice to say he is in a family in which participation in sports is a high priority and worthy pursuit. He will watch any sport on TV, and he’s recently learned how to do research on a computer helping me gather data for a future story.

There are two sports he shares with his Papa (that’s me).

This…

And that!

It’s not a surprise really, for Baseball and Golf are the two sports which are, in fact, the greatest metaphors for life known to humankind. And this little dude’s been looking at me from behind his eyes since he was six months old!

This story is about the that.

My dad loved to play golf. He took it up later in life but pursued it with the passion of a youth and the heart of a child. He once said to me that “golf is the great equalizer of men because there is no one alive who has played the game, that has not been humiliated by it.” It is a phrase I often utter and in all my years of playing, I have not found one person who disagrees.

Two years before he passed, he gathered his four children to inform us that his funeral plans were all in place. He would be cremated, and he had a few places where he would like his ashes to find rest. One of them was the green where he achieved his first, last and only hole in one. Another was the beach where he liked to walk in the winter when the weather would not allow him on the golf course. “Put some of me with your mother and after that”, he said, “I don’t care what you do with me.” And that’s where this story begins.

What to do with Pop? A few days after his funeral, we picked up his ashes and gathered in his home. We covered his kitchen table with newspapers and literally divided him up. Surreal doesn’t even begin to describe the experience, but however bizarre it seemed and indeed was, it was a loving, caring and deeply moving event. We laughed, we cried, and we remembered, all the things we always did around that very table. Everybody took their share of Dad.

The decision about the majority of his cremains was really quite simple. His neighbor was his nephew Jim, his wife Arlene and their boys, Chris, Patrick and Sean. They were glorious neighbors and Arlene and Dad worked out a sign. Every morning when Dad got out of bed, he’d raise the curtain in his window which faced her kitchen door. She checked on him every day for years. We planted a tree in their backyard about two hundred feet from his bedroom window and placed his ashes beneath its roots. And just as they’d done in his life, so they do for him now, still looking after him.

The lovely Marie took enough of him to carry out his wishes, spreading his ashes on his hole-in-one green at Lost Brook Golf Course in Norwood, where they’d met.

And along the shores of Nantasket beach where they had walked many a walk.

A couple of weeks later we gathered at “Mom’s” and placed him in the ground above her. And as it had at his funeral service, in Duxbury MA, the penetrating voice of Andre Bocelli accompanied by Sarah Brightman, cascaded over the final resting places of thousands in Weymouth Mass., Dad’s adopted hometown.

There was then, of course, the trip to Fenway. It was a July Friday night, and the Blue Jays were in town. My buddy Paul and I headed in and with us was well, a bit of dad. Wandering about watching pregame activities, we worked our way toward the field and as the National Anthem was played, Dad’s ashes fell to the warning track in front of Pesky’s Pole. A few weeks later, I had the opportunity to attend a luncheon held at Fenway Park, honoring Babe Ruth, after which came the Red Sox Twins game. For three innings, I sat next to Red Sox GM Dan Duquette, and we talked a lot about The Babe. I also “confessed” to him what I’d done just a couple of weeks earlier with Dad’s ashes. He looked at me with a smile and said, “not one of these players have any idea that every time they slide into second base, they are sliding into countless grandpas.” Well, Pop never had anyone slide into him, but each time that Pesky’s Pole comes into view on my TV screen, it brings a smile to my face.

Next, I had to decide what I wanted to do with my share of Dad and Paul’s wife Dennise gave me the best idea…”put him in a baseball holder”, and that’s exactly what I did.

Dad now sits proudly in a cabinet in my living room with photos and trinkets which tell the story of the life he shared with his wife and family.

With the “distribution” of Dad complete, the only task which remained was “What to do with the rest of him?” The solution was an easy one.

This is the 18th hole at the Lake Venice Golf Course in Venice FL, my adopted hometown. It was the last golf course Pop was ever on. It was January 21, 1998, and Dad, though unable to play, drove the cart and kept score as my sister-in-law Paula, and I took on my brother and a friend. Paula and I won!!

We all signed the card, and that card now sits with Dad in his place of honor in my home.

Lake Venice would be where the remainder of Dad’s cremains would take their rest. It was Father’s Day when Dad’s second son and fourth grandson headed to Lake Venice to play a round of golf. I carried him in my bag and when we finished the round, together we scattered them in the lake in front of the 18th green, forging a link in the chain of family.

Now the tradition. Throughout the years just before sunset on Dad’s birthday and on the anniversary of his passing, I make my way down to Lake Venice and play the 18th hole. On several occasions, I have found a green golf ball, sometimes in the water, sometimes on the edge of the woods and once there was one just sitting on the green. Dad played green golf balls and I came to view these occasional gifts as his way of just letting me know, he’s around. I took each one of them home and they now sit in his cabinet.

On this year’s date, Owen was staying with me and as sunset approached, I told him we were going to the golf course. I brought him to Dad’s cabinet and told him the story of his “Big Papa’s” ashes. He loves history and is always hyper curious when we talk of his family history, and he likes the fact that his middle name is my name. As I was telling him about my tradition of going to play Lake Venice’s 18th hole and why I do it. He stopped me. “Wait a minute Papa” he said, “you have the same birthday, the same name and the same Grandpa name.” He smiled at me and as I smiled back, I said, “When he got older, I called him Papaluche.”

So, it was off to Lake Venice.

Owen managed to avoid the water, no easy task, which, as you can see in the photo, encroaches the entire left side of the hole all the way to the green. He got there in three! Putting? Another story, but we’re working on it.

We didn’t find any golf balls, green or otherwise, however there was no doubt of Dad’s presence, it was everywhere, especially in the hearts of his seven-year-old great grandson and his older than seven-year-old son.

We headed home and the following morning when Owen got up, he wanted to putt a little.

He took the cup we use as a hole when we practice putting in my hallway. I heard him scuffling around in his bag, getting some golf balls. He walked out of his room and gave me a smile as he opened his hand. “Green golf balls” he said, “for Papaluche.”

We headed out for breakfast; a tradition Owen and I began together, and which has begun to grow. PANCAKES!

We picked up his cousin Henry and it was off to the “pancake store.”

And as the tradition grows, I am reminded of the words of that great philosopher Tevye of Anatevka…”Who, day and night must scramble for a living, feed a wife and children, and have the final say at home? the Papa, the Papa TRADITION. the Papa, the Papa TRADITION…” The Papaluche would be proud.

If you are so inclined…

And so it is, on this, the 21st of July 2024