Tales From the Quarter

Happy Birthday
By
Debbie Lindsey

Not once did my dad get to open the mailbox on his birthday and find a card to celebrate his birthday. I am not sure if this ever bothered him but I always thought it rotten luck – his being born on a legal holiday. But lucky for me, the procrastinator, he never had to know that my cards were doomed to arrive a bit late regardless.
As a kid I thought all the hoopla of Veterans Day -- red, white, and blue decorations, speeches, tributes, the fireworks -- was all about my dad, seeing how November 11th was his birthday. And it never really made sense to me since he was not even a Vet. And again, what about that no birthday card mail? Give me a break--I was five when I attempted to put this two and two thing together. So… by the time I was say, thirty, I figured it out…go ahead, laugh you idiot, I was hip to the difference by high school.
Any hoot, Phil Lindsey Day may not appear on your calendar but I can assure you it is a day worth celebrating. He is worth celebrating. Phil was my dad, my mentor, my best friend. Oh, he had a rotten temper at times, voted Republican and smoked cigarettes but he was sensitive, believed in women’s rights and wanted to quit smoking. He loved musicals, swimming, newspapers, and sweets.
He, and my mom, believed there was no distance too far to drive for a good meal. This drive to dine introduced me at an early age to New Orleans. I suspect that Mom and Dad happily haunt Galatoire’s to this day. He believed in eating out as a treat, a respite from the kitchen for Mom, and simply as an exercise in civility.
When I was eight Dad lost his lumber business and my folks had to do the bankruptcy thing and start over again. But dining out remained a priority even if Morrison’s Cafeteria was the extent of our culinary escapades. I guess my folks taught me that one could be poor and pragmatic within those constraints and still pass a good time. As finances improved through the years so did the restaurants. And of course vacations resumed as the family dollars stabilized -- but always for Dad it was the planning of the trip, extravagant or modest, which meant the most.
Dad may have been a registered Republican yet he was idealistic and progressive. He cared little for sports, would rather read or listen to his music. When he retired he joined the YMCA and swam daily, dove into volunteer work, and did not believe in boredom.
Last year, for my November column I was planning to honor Dad but he got bumped by a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon was about to be removed from our draft selection at work and well, I had to take issue with this. So, as a bartender I felt duty bound to write a farewell to my favorite pour. And I think Dad would have approved. He certainly appreciated a cold beer and a sense of humor – and both would serve him well with me for a daughter.
He and Mom became my best friends as I emerged from my hideous teenage years and misguided early twenties. They were Phil and Veronica to my friends – never Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey, as that would be too formal. They were always invited to parties that my friends and I threw or those big dinners out when a dozen or so of the gang would crowd into our favorite restaurant that was congenial to our boisterous crowd.
For a Christmas present, Mom often renewed the pool membership for the family at the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, a resort on Mobile Bay that also accommodated locals. But this gift really was given to Dad because he loved nothing more than driving across the bay to spend the day swimming and napping in the sun with the Mobile Press Register draped across his face as a sun block. He never could get the poolside look quite right. He would emerge from the cabana dressing room in his swim trunks, still sporting his Florsheims and dark dress socks. I have this great photo of him lazing in a chase lounge on the beach in a suit. My sister and mom finally got him into white socks and Topsiders and finally sandals. Eventually Bermuda shorts made they’re way into the wardrobe.
Sometimes for a spilt second I forget and think, "I’ll ask Dad". It would be so good to pick up the phone and ask him just what it was like during that Hurricane of 1915 or did aunt what’s-her-name really sleep with her sister's husband? But sadly I can not gossip or share news with Dad. He died 15 years ago. He may have been 85 but his death came too soon. He had so many places still to visit, newspapers to read, laps to swim, music to enjoy and most important -- too much love still left to give to my mom. And I still had so much to learn from my dearest friend, Dad.
To Dad, and to all that knew him, I apologize for such a lame and rather contrived tribute. I have written better words to honor him in previous columns. But, just like for so many folks along our gulf coast it has been a long three years and I am tired. And now is when I think of him as November approaches. Now is when I could use a long chat with him and a drive across the causeway to our memories by the bay.
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Phil Lindsey, by way of his ashes, now resides in the bay off the pier of the Grand Hotel. He might have preferred the swimming pool but hotel management would have frowned upon that idea – and at that time his membership had lapsed.