"What do You Think of My Kid?"
by Allen Herman

His name was Paul ..... Paul Tankle.

And he was my friend. I first met him some fourteen years ago when my son Gabe and his son Lee played T-Ball together.

I noticed him standing quietly, off to the sidelines, watching Lee try to hit the little ball that sat firmly atop the plastic tee.  His quiet manner, his desire to be almost invisible, led me to suspect he was a "betweener." He was one of those men in the middle of a divorce. I recognized his discomfort immediately.

I walked over and introduced myself. He felt awkward. It wasn't easy leaving his home, not seeing his son every night, living in a strange isolated environment and being viewed by some in the neighborhood as some kind of alcoholic, drug abusing, child molesting, wife beating, womanizing, tax evading, unpatriotic, non-alimony-paying creep. The more we talked and the more I convinced him that most people didn't think he was guilty of all the charges, the more he relaxed, the more he laughed and the more friendly we became.

Thus began a great friendship. At the time, Paul was living on his boat, the Anomaly. She was docked on the Delaware River, near the Ben Franklin Bridge. Gabe, Linda and I celebrated Memorial Day picnicking on his boat and watched the fireworks on July 4th in the middle of the Delaware River. One Labor Day we took the Anomaly up river to hear the band play on the Bristol waterfront. Sometimes, during the hot summer, we just took the boat and cruised up and down the waterfront. They were fun times.

Probably one of the most special moments in my entire life was when we took the boys on a four day trip to the Chesapeake Bay. Just the men.... no women. We stayed out on the water, far from land, eating, sleeping and swimming for four days. We had no TV or Internet or newspapers ­– not even a radio. Just quiet. It was special. One night we found a tiny isolated island where we made a fire, barbecued and just chilled. Paul and I spoke for hours after the boys fell asleep in our arms.

Finally we waded back to the boat, carrying our sleeping kids and planning the next day. We really had a great time!  When we got home and Linda asked Gabe about our four day sojourn  he was thrilled to tell her Uncle Paul had taught him how to "pee off the side of the boat." Need I say more? To a little boy, it was the highlight of his trip. And so it went.

One day Gabe came home and asked if Paul could build a clubhouse in our backyard. Both Linda and I, assuming he meant some tiny little structure, gave him the green light. The following day a truck pulled up, filled to the brim with lumber, siding, shingles and two-by- fours. It even had carpeting. Paul built SOME clubhouse. It was big enough for six kids inside and another six on its porch. It was the talk of the neighborhood and for a lengthy period I expected a knock on the door from a township building inspector. (Linda referred to it as her "rental property.")

Paul built an even nicer Sukkah (temporary 3-sided booth) outside of our home on the Jewish holiday of Sukkos for all to use and enjoy. Our neighbors, Nick Gallo and Steve Homel, helped with the construction. And every year, for an eight day period, many friends and neighbors would join us for dinner outside, under the stars.

One year, we were celebrating Sukkos again and we expected a really heavy rainstorm. Linda discussed her fear that tons of mud and dirt would be brought into the house by our holiday guests. Paul looked at our large kitchen, with its huge skylights, and decided to build the Sukkah IN the kitchen under the skylights. His reasoning was simple. Everybody would be indoors and there would be no mud. Let me say this fast before I get tons of mail from some of our more observant Jewish readers who will scream that what was done was not correct.... just not kosher. And they would be absolutely right. But for eight days, that particular year, we had a grand old time. I assure you that neither Nick or Steve, or most of our other friends ever knew that our little structure was "not legit."

Early last year, long after he had moved from the boat to South Street and then on to Brigantine, Paul noticed a bump on his back. No big deal he thought, but he did go to the doctor. Unfortunately, it was a big deal. It was cancer. He learned he had a sarcoma. He was stunned and scared. And when I heard the prognosis,

I immediately went to Jefferson Hospital to just be there..... to just listen, I guess. I wanted to let him talk, get it out of his system.
What he said stunned me. He knew he had little chance of beating the odds. He had just one wish. He wanted to see Lee graduate from Dickinson. That's all he wanted.  He was prepared to go through hell and high water, surgery after surgery, treatment after treatment, pain and torture, just to see his son graduate. It wasn't the hope of a scared or dying man, it was the statement of a man who would not relent until his son had a mortar board on his head. It was as if he was challenging The Man Above.

Paul made it....to Lee's graduation. He had surgery after surgery and torture after torture, and  he hung in there. His cancer spread to his brain. When I visited after that surgery it looked as though someone had stitched his head to resemble a baseball. But he continued on. He never quit. After doctors discovered the horrible pain in his ear was caused by leakage from his brain, there was more surgery, more unbearable pain and a trip to Jeanes Hospital. Next he battled lung cancer. Still he would not quit! He was determined to live to see his son graduate. There was no discussion nor compromise. Paul would see Lee graduate even if it meant he had to wrestle with the angel of death.

The day of graduation arrived and Paul's family drove him to Dickinson where he checked into a hotel and was alert enough to attend the graduation that he dared death to rob from him. He made it. And then later, within days, he was at Holy Redeemer in hospice care. When I went to see him he weighed a mere eighty pounds. The cancer had ravaged his body.

I confess. I do not know what to say at times. I never knew what to say to a girl in a bar. I fumble when it comes to making a condolence call. I am just not good without a delete bottom. Saying good-bye to a friend ..... a real friend....  tied me up even further. I felt like I had stones in my mouth. I just can't and couldn't say what I was thinking. Often I make nervous jokes. This time...... as I was leaving Paul with no idea as to what to say to my dying friend, I bent over and whispered that I knew that he attended his son's graduation. His body came alive, his eyes opened wide and his voice found strength I didn't know he still possessed. He looked at me clearly and whispered "What do you think of my kid?"

That was the last time I saw or spoke to Paul. Linda and I attended a Bat Mitzvah and a Wedding that weekend. Before I could see him again he died. I was on my way to the hospital when Gail, his ex wife who generously provided both moral and physical support to Paul over the recent months, called to tell me had died just hours earlier. Then she shared details of his funeral. We all went, Linda, Gabe and I. The eulogies came as no surprise. No one could believe how he straight-armed death for so long to see Lee graduate.

When I returned from the funeral I aimlessly wondered about the condo. I was upset and could find no form of release. Finally I sat down and turned on the TV. It didn’t take more than a minute or two before the announcer on CNN reported that over forty percent of the children born in America today live in “single parent homes.” And they weren't really referring to "single parent homes" due to death, divorce, accidents, etc. It sucks!

Let me blunt. Paul's death has little to do with this publication, except that his life has so much to say about fatherhood.... especially on Father's Day. Those "over forty percent of children" being born into “single parent homes” ..… these are kids, for the most part, who are being born into homes without fathers.  And this, dear readers, is a tragedy of epic proportions. Sugar-coated terms can't change reality. Boys (and girls) need fathers! Kids need Dads.

Paul Tankle, like so many others, was more than just one father. He represented most fathers. Fathers who stay and assist by any means necessary to help rear their children. Paul was a simple man. And like so many fathers of so many different religions, socio economic backgrounds and beliefs, he would always find time that didn't exist to watch his kid in a school play he really didn't want to see or cheer at a ball game. He would scrimp and go without lunch or a new suit to make sure his kid had the sneaks and the baseball glove he required. He went without to take his kid to an Eagles or a Phillies game. Paul was a damn good father.

A boy needs a father … even if he is not perfect. A boy needs a Dad at his side more when he strikes out than when he hits a home run. He needs a father as much when he flunks a test as when he wins a trophy. A boy needs a father when he loses his first fight or gets rejected by his first girlfriend. A boy needs a father to tell him that he “becomes a man” only when he learns to admit he gets scared or even cries at times. And he needs a Dad to teach him how to apologize and to say he's sorry. Above all, a boy needs a Dad to teach him to “stand tall” when the occasion calls for it.

In the simplest of terms, a boy needs a dad to teach him how to "pee off the side of a boat." For all other things there may be Visa .... but for this part of his education he needs a Dad.

Perhaps, as you read this, you realize you've had trouble telling your Dad how much he means to you. Maybe you want to remind him of the times you spent together, the sacrifices he made for you and the love he has for you. Perhaps you might want to tear this little article out of the magazine and mail it to him next year if not this year. If he mentions it to you and you get embarrassed just punch him on the arm and tell him it saved you the cost of a card.  He’ll understand.

Lee, your Dad had every right to be “proud of his kid.” And you have every right to be proud of him. If he did nothing else ..… he taught you love, commitment, pride and unbelievable determination and dedication. He literally went through hell on earth to live long enough to see you graduate as President of Dickinson’s graduating class and go on to start William and Mary Law School.

He once jokingly told me that you were a terrible baseball player but that he knew one day you might be "benched" on the Supreme Court. He lived thinking a lot of his kid and he died the same way........... thinking a lot of his kid.

Wishing you become the same kind of father.

Allen Herman
Your opinions are always welcomed.
uptightsuburban@aol.com