LOSING A PARENT is like having a taproot severed. A cord that holds us to the ground is cut. Difficult it is for those with difficult parents, and even more so for those with good parents.

My father, William Paul Quinn, died yesterday at 11:54 a.m. in bed at home in West Chester, Pennsylvania. He was 91 years old. All seven of his children were at his bedside when he took his last breaths. Having a parent for so long doesn’t necessarily mean you’re ready to say goodbye. (If you know any couple who would be willing to adopt seven pre-elderly orphans, we’re open to offers.) We still need parental attention. We need parents to take care of and cherish too. The brutal fact is, we never truly outgrow the need for a father and a mother. Now both our parents are gone.

My father survived his wife of 64 years by a little over six months and spent much of that time in a recliner in his bedroom, unable to walk much, unable to control his basic functions, almost defeated, grieving, anxious to die but cheerful and interested in others nevertheless. He was mentally sharp up until the very end. The last few days he fell into a deep sleep, like a boxer who’d been flung back against the ropes for the last time. His hands were so swollen they actually looked like boxing gloves. He had put up a good fight. The bruises on his hands said so. But it was done.

Before the humiliations — and the good times — of old age, my father was a bright and accomplished attorney who grew up in Scranton, Pennsylvania; went to law school at the University of Pennsylvania and worked for the Reading Railroad. Then later as a partner in a firm he specialized in interstate commerce and railroads.

A colleague wrote of him on his death:

Bill was successful in the railroad practice because he knew the law so thoroughly, and was adept at applying it to the situation at hand. He was careful and thorough. And he had the ability to write clearly and persuasively – both in the contracts he drafted and in the briefs that he wrote to the Interstate Commerce Commission and to the courts.

Bill was a “counselor” in the true sense of the word. Most of his relationships with his clients went beyond merely that of lawyer-client. Clients looked to Bill not just for what the law said they could do, but what they should do. They knew Bill always to be fair and honest. He told them what was right, even if it was not what they wanted to hear. Bill developed a personal relationship with many of his clients that allowed him to be a trusted advisor. His relationships with his railroad (and other) clients were so strong that many were clients from the early 1980’s until he retired in 2003. And they continued to ask me about him since he retired.

As one of our long time clients said when I told him of Bill’s passing, “He set a high standard for himself, his clients, his colleagues and the legal profession.”

For a long time my father had an office on the 18th floor of Penn Mutual Tower on Walnut Street near Independence Mall in Philadelphia, overlooking some of America’s most historic buildings. It’s not surprising he did so well. He had good judgment and a fine analytical mind. He was cool under pressure too. I cannot imagine anyone more suited to legal work. But we his children never heard much of what he did at work. He was always home for dinner at night, walking the mile and a half from the closest suburban train station. He would have a drink with his wife, then sit down to eat with all of us and he rarely talked about his work. Afterward he would retire to his study, where he would blast Beethoven’s Egmont Overture, Mozart’s sonatas or some other outrageously beautiful music. He loved classical music and was a self-taught listener, having never studied music formally. He would often stop at the Sam Goody’s record store on Market Street on his way home from work to add to his record collection, some of which now sits on our shelves. My parents were subscribers to The Philadelphia Orchestra for more than 40 years and had seen the great Leopold Stokowski and Eugene Ormandy conducting.

When I was in high school, my parents opened a summer ice cream parlor in Ocean City, New Jersey. It was a chance for all of us to work our way through college together. Imagine trying to run a successful business with a bunch of irritable adolescents. They did it though and my father’s hard work and patience played a big part in it. It was called À La Mode and the main product was trucked in from a farm in Pennsylvania. Cheerful calico curtains made by my mother and big band music tapes put together by my father brightened the place. Despite these nice touches, it was for us a labor camp — with all the ice cream you could eat. Sometimes we would work 12 hours a day, returning home with melted and dried ice cream all up and down our forearms — it was dessert for the dog. My father stayed back home during the week and on the weekends came to the shore. Though he had worked hard in his law office and had eaten seal-a-meal dinners alone every night, he retained the energy and calm to handle uncomplainingly the various crises of the weekends, whether it be broken-down freezers, too much business, too little business, dishes piling up in the kitchen, shortages of bananas or family conflicts. These may seem like trivial matters, but you would be surprised just how many serious issues and potential calamities are involved in the vital enterprise of providing the public with ice cream, including cones and sundaes served at tables. No, these were life-and-death issues and my father’s cool judgment was indispensable. I remember one evening when for some reason my mother ran away from it all — the bills, the freezers, the homemade chocolate sauce, the little paper parasols on sundaes, the difficult employees, us, etc. She was gone altogether for about half an hour. My father calmly talked her into coming back.

But then he was a loving husband and there was every reason she would come back. No man loved his wife more than my father did or was as openly appreciative of her. He marveled at her domestic abilities and interesting insights into all things.

After I graduated from college, I would sometimes accompany my parents to New York City on Saturday performances of the Metropolitan Opera. I did not at first appreciate the classical music my father played — it sounded just like noise — but I had grown into it. We would pack a picnic lunch and eat it in the dark, subterranean parking lot under Lincoln Center. The packed lunch was our way of outsmarting this costly metropolis. We would emerge from underground, stand in line for cancellation tickets, walk the streets of New York, and have dinner before heading to the evening performance. These were some of the happiest of all times for me. I was astounded by the sets, the lush music, the drama. Opera was another world, a universe of romantic wonders where it was permissible to possess ludicrously extreme emotions and the music got better the more times you heard it. I remember thinking at the time that if one could listen to opera like this every single day, one would never grow old inside, one’s heart would never grow cold, and that wouldn’t be such a bad thing though one might run into practical difficulties. But I forgot to do it. I liked the fact that my father could combine practical legal ability with appreciation for the emotional heights of Puccini and Wagner. There was something — and still is something — mysterious about that combination.

I was also just happy to have my parents to myself during those outings. My father kept up the pace even though he was sometimes clearly tired from a long week at work. Once he had some especially expensive seats that were about $150 in today’s dollars. As he sat there basking in the sounds of some of the world’s greatest musicians, he began to nod off. He suddenly jolted awake, realizing just how much it was costing him to have this nap. “What the hell,” he then said to himself, and fell back to sleep.

He deserved it. He worked hard.

My father was a father before the age when fathers were supposed to be audiences and servants to their children. It was not beneath him to lower our self-esteem, and that was good. Self-esteem is a myth. What children need to learn is to distrust themselves.

My father fit into the good parent category. He was not without his faults, but he gave his children stability, support and affection which was not always unconditional. Conservatives often talk about the scourge of fatherlessness in our society. That’s because a lot of us know what it is to have a father in the best sense of the word and feel deeply sorry for those who don’t.

When we were very small, my parents would sometimes turn off all the lights in the house at night and then everyone would go and hide in the dark, thrilled and terrified, as my father played the monster who was looking for his next meal. We knew he would eventually find us hiding in a closet or under the bed and we let loose blood-curdling shrieks when he did. But what better monster for a small child looking for pretend terror then one’s own patriarch and protector?

God gave us fathers to admire so that we could understand Him better. God gave us fathers to lose so that we could understand Him better. God gave us fathers to love so that we could have a better sense in our fallen condition of just how much He loves us.

 

 

— Comments —

A female reader writes:

Thank you for writing about your father. I really enjoyed reading the post. You have my sincerest consolations; the death of both your parents must be a lot to handle. (I have never experienced the death of someone close to me so I can only imagine.) It is touching in a melancholy way to hear how the death of a spouse often profoundly affects the other, to the point that the second passes on shortly after. I will offer my rosary for the repose of your father’s soul today.

Sara writes:

I am sorry to read of your Dad’s passing just now, and for your loss.  What a beautiful memoir of your father, and he sounds like a wonderful man.  May he rest in peace with your mother.  God be with you all.

J. Hayes writes:

Sincere condolences & prayers for the repose of your parents’ souls and for you and your family.

May the Holy Family comfort you in this difficult time.

Alan M. writes:

What a beautiful tribute to your father. I’m sorry for your loss and all of you are in our prayers.

I have requested a mass in his name at the Society of St. Pius V.

Stephen Ippolito writes from Australia:

Words are always inadequate at a time like this, Laura, but may I say how very sorry I am to hear of your dad’s death and your family’s sorrow.

Please accept my assurance that your dad is very much in my prayers every evening.

I know I speak for all your other on-line friends when I say that Mr. Quinn must be an exceptional fellow to have won the heart of such an exceptional lady as your late mother and to have also raised such an exceptional daughter.

Good people mean terribly well for you when they tell you to buck up and assure you that all will be well – but it doesn’t seem to take much away from the pain at the time – at least that’s what I found as friends tried to comfort me in my own bereavements.

After all the words are spoken and some time has passed I know you’ll come to realise, as I did, that through it all God does quietly honor the promise of the psalm: “The lord is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit”.

Laura writes:

Thank you.

I cannot agree on the “exceptional daughter,” but definitely an exceptional wife!

Christopher writes from Paris, France:

I prayed the fourth glorious mystery decade for your father tonight.

Kidist Paulos Asrat writes from Canada:

God bless your father and your whole family.

Katherine writes:

Please know that your father is in my prayers. You and your family also continue to be in my thoughts and prayers. May God send you comfort in this difficult time.

Wheeler writes:

I am praying for your beloved father, and for you during this time. May our Father strengthen you, may the knowledge of our Savior’s intercession comfort you, may the Holy Ghost grant you unction, and may our Blessed Mother’s loving presence envelop you as your heart travels in hope, bearing its burden of grief.

Joe A. writes:

My God bless him and his children. I lost both parents many years ago; they were too young but no matter the age, it is the passing of the baton and one is changed for it.

Kyle writes:

Reading your earlier post about your father facing death pained my heart, as I know it’s hard on you and your family.

I will pray for Mr. Quinn and for you to keep a strong heart in the face of this. There’s plain few things I can say to help make this situation more tolerable but I’ll share in your grief by keeping you in my thoughts and prayers.

Laura writes:

On behalf of my family, I thank you and other readers for your kind condolences. I am deeply grateful for your thoughtfulness and prayers.

Don Vincenzo writes:

May the souls of the faithfully departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

On Sunday, I’ll make arrangements for his funeral Mass at my parish.

When my mother died – at 97 – I realized that I no longer had a parent. It is a strange feeling, but one that forces you to recognize that “sic transit Gloria mundi.”

Life goes on, but in a different way.

Fr. Michael Ruskin writes:

I’m sorry for your loss and my thoughts are with you during this difficult time. What an interesting life your father had and such a credit to him and your mother that all their children surrounded him at his passing.

With Christian love and my prayers for you and the family.

Kathlene M. writes:

I am so sorry for the loss of your father. Your tribute to him was beautiful. My family and I said prayers for him and your family.

My husband lost both his parents and said something along the lines of what you wrote, about feeling like an orphan in the world.

May God comfort you with His enduring and tender love during this time and always.

Laura writes:

Thank you.

Dan R. writes:

Condolences on the death of your father. A beautiful tribute.

Caryl writes:

That was a beautiful tribute to your father.

Yes, both of my parents are gone too—my mother back in 1980 when I was 33, my father in 1992. We are both orphans. I’m glad my sons had a little experience of their grandfather.

TK writes:

So sorry to hear of your father’s passing. It’s such a blessing to have a good father. What you wrote about him was beautiful.

Mrs. T. writes:

What a beautiful and touching tribute you wrote to your father. A pleasure to read.

Be assured that he and your mother are in my daily rosary intentions.

Johanna writes:

I’m very sorry about the loss of your Father and loved reading about your life with him

You are all three on my prayer list now. Your Mother was first when she passed away some months ago, then you and now your Father. How wonderful that you were all with him.

God’s blessings on you and your family.

Laura writes:

I am fortunate — and grateful — to have such thoughtful and kind readers.

Your notes are very important to me. And your prayers are a tremendous consolation. More than I can say.

Thank you.

N.J. writes:

My condolences on your father’s passing. He reminds me of my grandfathers and great-grandfathers – the men who built America.

Paul C. writes:

God bless you and your father. I will say a prayer for you and for him.