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Our Gussie

…Sharing the Life and Lessons of Gus Fanelli, Father Extraordinaire

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Parenting

Hopping off the Hamster Wheel of Life

Gussie was a true outdoorsman.  From when he spent every summer day at the beach as a teen, working in Atlantic City carrying beach cushions, to crabbing, fishing and hunting, he loved to be outdoors. Hunting and fishing were his favorite.  From the day after Thanksgiving, every year, when deer (buck) season started he would go to Potter County in Pennsylvania and spend a week hunting at his cabin in the mountains, which he owned with a group of his hunting buddies. He never missed the start of deer season in Potter County until claustrophobia crippled his ability to sleep in tight quarters and he reluctantly had to stop making the trip.

 

Success! Gussie nabbed a big one on this hunting trip.
Success! Gussie nabbed a big one on this hunting trip.

It was always an event when my father returned from his trip.  My sister and I hated that he was gone for a week; we missed him so much. We would count down the days until he arrived home and wait at the window until we saw his car pull up, then we’d race to the door to attack him with hugs. He always smelled like the mountains, his flannel shirt still musty from the cabin. His hiking boots were always a little more dinged-up. The best part of his return, though, was his unshaven face. Gussie never grew a beard until he went hunting; he always preferred to have a clean face, minus one or twice when he briefly grew a mustache.  He always came home with a week’s worth of beard, which he would rub against our cheeks to tickle us when he kissed us hello. An hour later, after his rifles were returned to his gun cabinet and my mother had started the washer to clean his hunting clothes, the beard would be gone, and our clean-shaven father was back. I always looked forward to Grizzly Gussie, who sometimes had a deer with him, and sometimes didn’t. Getting a deer meant gloves for us and a freezer-full of venison meat which only my father would cook and eat.

It was a sad day when my father returned early from his hunting trip in 2000. He couldn’t sleep in the bunk bed because he felt closed in and he felt trapped with so many people in the room.  His claustrophobia had become more and more of a problem in the past 5 or 6 years; he didn’t like to be in crowds at parades or festivals anymore. The first year he had decided not to go, I looked for local day trip hunting opportunities for him where I live but for one reason or another, they didn’t pan out. Gussie had resigned himself to a life without deer hunting.

My father had a very stressful life.  He knew the importance of pursuing a pastime that he loved so he could immerse himself, even for a short time, in something to distract him.  Hunting (and fishing, which will be another post), was his week to jump off the hamster wheel of life and go off the grid.  There was no telephone in the Potter County cabin, no tv; just a radio to check the weather conditions and kitchen appliances so their buddy, Billy, who loved to cook, could prepare meals for them. In the silence of the woods, my dad would watch for a deer to come into view and clear his mind.

My father’s devotion to his past-times taught me the importance of having activities that I am passionate about. My father was never bored.  In addition to his outdoorsman activities, he loved photography and had several cameras that he taught me how to use. A voracious reader,  he would immerse himself in material that fed his mind.  He had no time for vapid novels, but instead, he would devour history books; he had a special affinity for World War 2- he served in Germany after the war in the occupational troops. If he was watching tv, it was usually a biography or national geographic, with a sitcom here and there for some laughter- my father had a great sense of humor.

My father didn’t like the word “bored” when I was a child. When I was very young and told him I was bored, he would rattle off a litany of activities I could do- either alone or with my sister or one of my parents. I quickly learned that there was no reason to ever be bored with art supplies, books, cameras, bicycles, board games, balls, and other goodies that I had. There were no computers then, weekend tv shows for children ended at noon, and my parents didn’t believe in making weekends non-stop fun events for us on a regular basis just to keep us entertained. As a parent now, I realized I inherited this attitude from them.

As an adult I found photographing the outdoors to be my escape from the hamster wheel of life, if just for a little while.  I inherited that attitude from my father. The word bored isn’t heard in my home, and I can’t remember when one of my daughters even uttered it; they are both creative people who love to create, so bored isn’t in their vocabulary. When they were younger, they had sports. Now they feed their minds or create something from inspiration they get. Although nowadays technology plays a big role in most children’s lives, if by using it they are inspired to write or draw or paint or photograph something, then that’s something positive, and my father would be pleased that they are pursuing something that is their own and that makes them happy.

 

 

 

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Honey, Lemon and Love

When I was a kid, certain care-taker roles in my house belonged to my father. I don’t know if one time he just stepped in or my mother was unsure of what to do, but there were a few that were definitely “Dad’s turf.”

One of these was sore throat care. Possibly because my father liked to sing (and did it well), he might have taken good care of his throat when he was sick himself. So when my sister or I were sick with a cold and sore throat, we counted on our Sicilian grandmother to slather us with Vicks- (read my story about her here: Nonna & the Vicks) and my dad to whip out the spoon. You see, the spoon was for a pile of honey, onto which he would then squirt lemon juice and pop into our mouths. Not my favorite but just as sure as I was that I would have a glass of orange juice for breakfast the next morning, I knew I was getting a spoon of honey and lemon when I got sick. It did make us feel better, but not as good as the cup of hot tea with honey and lemon he would make us before bedtime. Something about that tea when I was sick- even living there as an adult- comforted me.

It turns out my dad had the right idea all along. The Mayo Clinic published an article about the benefits of honey and lemon for sore throats and coughs, giving ME some backup now that I give it to my children. I think just knowing that Pop Pop used it should be enough, though. (Read: Mayo clinic.)


Another remedy my father insisted on was Chloraseptic throat spray. I HATED IT! Right down the throat but not fast enough to miss my tastebuds! I begged my father to let me skip that part but he would say “one quick spray” while I held my mouth open and he got two quick bursts in there instead of one. Duped! But on really bad throat days, that awful stuff numbed the heck out of my throat and allowed me to go to sleep. Father knows best.

So many nights as a kid I would be in bed, covered in Vicks and a flannel cloth courtesy of my grandmother, sipping tea and waiting for my shot of Chloraseptic so I could go to sleep. It was kind of an ordeal as well as a tradition. On days like today when I have a cold and sore throat, I wish my father were here to make me some tea or at least offer the advice as he had done for my adult life whenever I was sick: “Make yourself some tea with honey and lemon.”

This is my first cold where he hasn’t been here to give me that expected, yet sage advice. I’m an adult, I didn’t need him to tell me, but I was always glad he did. So, in his honor I had a spoonful of honey with lemon juice tonight.

I feel better already.

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