Ode To Fire And Ice (Cream)

There he stood, a master of opposing forces. On one hand, he expertly guided his sons through the jungle of alpha manliness. On the other, he showed undying tenderness towards his daughters. He could be a disciplined taskmaster, yet just as quickly turn into a jolly clown.

Through it all, as you drilled deeper into his heart, you discovered the impish smile. He knew his talents and shared them with unrestrained joy. Yet, he also knew his limits, and just as gladly allowed others to shine above him.

He thrived in this dichotomy of opposites, well aware how he could summon them to create a powerful whirlwind of meaning, influence, and steadfast certainty. For him, it wasn’t a philosophical exercise akin to Yin and Yang. No, such a thought would repel him.

Instead, it was the raw energy that percolates in the hearth of real life, forged from the elements of fire and ice. You didn’t need books or a college education. It was a common sense too often uncommon in a world of raised pinkies and polite discourse.

Hot fire drove his passion, his spirit of life and living. It was anger. It was love. It was his priority of God, Country, and Family (although not necessarily in that order).

Cool ice propelled him to success. He was diligent. He was precise. He was a stoic calculator who confidently maneuvered around those “college boys” that surrounded him.

I say this now, as a man—a son—nearly 64 years old. At this age, I guess I’m expected to possess the wisdom to see things in this light.

But it wasn’t always that way. There was a time when my brother and I were small enough to nestle behind the bent knees of our father as he lay on the couch. Ah, Saturday mornings. He could relax, and we could sit close to him. Bugs Bunny played endlessly on TV. We’d laugh.

In those formative years of life, long before my vocabulary included words with three (or more) syllable, my father taught the concept of the interplay between fire and ice—not by words—but by actions. Indeed, he managed to weave these very elements into our lives.

Let’s start with fire.

You might expect someone who began his working life rolling steel to have at least a casual interest in the fire that ignited that process. Dad’s interest, shall we say, was more than casual.

From my earliest years, fire, specifically my father’s inclination to demonstrate his mastery over it, played a prominent role in seminal events. Sure, he showed how to build a sustainable fire from the smallest of kindling.

Whether in the belly of either of our two fireplaces in 187 Abbott Parkway or in the outdoor brick barbecue, he taught my brother and me the importance of low, steady heat. Those lessons extended to open pit cooking from 19 Dortmund Circle to 2 Lantern Lane. Fire heated our homes and cooked our meat.

That he employed brick and stone structures to contain the cracking flames he created only added to its allure, for my father was a master of masonry skills, having had a small bricklaying business with his father. He was equally adept with a stoker as he was with a trowel. The only thing that excited him more than a gasoline induced fireball was the sight of a perfectly struck joint.

Wait. I see what you’re thinking. It’s not that. To a mason, a joint represents that line of mortar between bricks. There was an art to getting that just right. It was an art my father excelled in.

Now, about that gasoline. It does seem a bit of a jump. I mean, starting a small campfire from loose twigs creates a far different image than throwing a match in a pool of gas. Still, sometimes you need to go from zero to blazing inferno in a lot less than sixty seconds.

Such was the case in mole hunting. Summer meant a lot of free time for me and Kenny. We had time to track all the creatures that lived around our house. One day we found ourselves chasing moles. They’d be running through the grass and then disappear. We discovered the holes they burrowed into.

We knew our father complained about the moles tearing up his lawn. We also knew, unlike my brother and me, he was too busy to chase them down. So we dutifully reported our findings and showed Dad the hole in the ground. He nodded without saying a word and walked away.

Moments later, he reappeared with the gas can. “Boys,” he said, “watch this.” He poured gas into the hole, struck a match and tossed it in. In a puff of flame, no more mole. He then went on to explain how he learned to do this by watching World War II movies, but we were too mesmerized by that puff of flame. “Do it again,” we pleaded. “Not until you find another mole hole,” said Dad.

I don’t know if my mother ever heard that story. If she did, she’d probably be quite upset given the proximity of that mole hole to the house.

Not that she didn’t get upset about my father’s proclivity to burning things. Especially when one of those things was the old Victrola we once had. I don’t know what made her more mad. Seeing Dad roast the Victrola in our backyard brick fireplace or my father encouraging his sons to fling those 78s like they were frisbees.

If it’s not evident by now, Dad was a fun guy. And he liked others around him to participate in that fun. He had fun with the boys and adult leaders as Cubmaster of Pack 489 in Blasdell. He had fun with his car buddies in the Cadillac-LaSalle Club in Albany. He had fun with his fellow amateur thespians performing my mother’s various theatrical productions in Kings Isle. And, everywhere he went, he had fun playing bocce at family parties. As one of my classmates said, “the party took on an enhanced level of fun when he arrived on the scene.”

And yes, despite his “Loss Control” training, he had fun with fire. Maybe because he knew he could control it. Well, at least most of the time.

Remember that open pit I mentioned? It often required a “quick start” to get the fire hot enough to put the spit on it. Dad enjoyed his time-honored technique of dumping gas on the smoldering charcoal to coax a flame or two out of it. One summer, he got into a “who can make a bigger fireball” contest with one of my college friends. Back and forth they went, throwing gas on the fire, seeing how brilliant of a burst they could detonate. They only stopped when I said I needed that gas for the lawn mower.

Speaking of internal-combustion engines, a thought only now occurs to me. Why would a guy so immersed in antique cars be so cavalier with gasoline? Then again, knowing his cars, that aerosol can of starter fluid was probably more important than the can of gas.

Ah, but to control fire. You can’t get more primal than that. It’s what separates man from beast. It’s what every father wants to demonstrate. It’s what every father wants to be sure to pass down to the next generation. To grasp fire. To control it. To master it.

Sometimes, of course, the master became the mastered. After one party, we started cleaning up the pit area. That usually meant burning the rest of the loose wood. We didn’t need much of a fire. Despite that, Dad always found an excuse to throw some gas into it. Everybody went into the house for lunch except for him. As we were eating, I noticed some white smoke. I peeked out of the window. THE GRASS WAS ON FIRE!

Dad got a little carried away. Luckily, his Safety Engineering training taught us always to have a running hose nearby when fire cooking in the open pit. He got the fire out, but not before a good portion of the lawn turned from green to black. Actually, it wasn’t green. It was brown. The hot August days and lack of rain dried the grass, making it more susceptible to fire.

When my father wasn’t busy burning my lawn on hot days, he did something he enjoyed more than building fires or laying bricks: he took us all for ice cream. Growing up, he’d spontaneously declare, “Let’s go get ice cream!” and off we went to Fran ’n Ceil’s.

It didn’t matter where we lived, Dad found a favorite ice cream place. He wasn’t afraid to drop everything and take the entire family out for ice cream, usually in one of those antique cars. And when I say “the entire family” I mean his kids, his grandkids, everybody.

Even going back to Buffalo for family events, he’d say, “Hey, who wants ice cream?” Once again, off we went to Fran ’n Ceil’s.

And, as we peacefully ate our soft serve custard cones standing beside our cars, my father would invariably say, “See that concrete block building across the street? My father and I put it up. If you look closely, you can see where I laid the block and where my father laid the block. My joints were better.”

Even there, at that moment, you could see that familiar impish smile formed from the chemistry of fire and ice (cream).

And that laugh. It was a deep laugh. The laugh that told you he knew something you didn’t. But he thought you did. It was the same laugh he and I would share every Tuesday these last few months as we sat on the reclining couch. Side by side. Close to each other. Watching Bugs Bunny cartoons.

And when the icy moon finally eclipsed the fire of life, we knew the truth. We knew Dad was on the other side. The side where the light always shines with eternal bliss.