To Be Frank

It was May 17, 1990. We were sitting on the couch in our apartment in Virginia, Mr. Ginley and I, testing each other's trivia skills. Having a good 'ole time. When the telephone rang.

We looked at each other. He paled. Something was wrong, he knew it instinctively. He went to pick up the phone.

His Dad, who'd been on vacation with his two brothers and his Mom, had a heart attack and passed away on a walk through Zion National Park. He was 70 years old. 

The first time I met Francis Ignatius Ginley, Jr. was a shock. My then-boyfriend warned me that his Dad hadn't warmed up to any of his girlfriends. I shouldn't feel bad if he nodded at me and went into the other room to read the paper. But that ain't what happened.

I walked in the front door of their home and was immediately greeted by his Dad who gave me a big kiss and a hug. I don't think I had a chance to give him a hug back, I was that startled. This didn't seem to bother him in the least. He put his arm around me and led me into the house. I then met Bill's Mom and his sister, Mary. The rest is a blur, but there was no question I'd been accepted into the fold.

Like my Dad, Frank was a veteran of World War II. He saw a lot of action, but didn't talk about it much. Clearly, it shaped who he became. By the time I met him, the edges had softened. He was tired and retired. He'd been through a lot.

Sadly, I only had four years with the man who became my second Dad, but they were eventful years. Mary passed away after bravely battling lung cancer. And his son followed me to Virginia to start a new life together. Mr. and I became Mr. and Mrs. but, as we came to regret, our parents weren't there to witness the nuptials.

On our last trip through town before he died, Dad made Mr. promise to take care of his Mom if anything happened. Which is why we ended up back here. 

I only wish our son could have know his Granddad. I know in my heart of hearts the two of them would have gotten on famously. I hope wherever his spirit lives (and I know it does) that Dad's watching over our boy.

Today, as we mark the 35th anniversary of his passing, I remember sitting in church for his funeral, feeling bereft. When in my head, I heard Frank, loud and clear, say, "Who the hell goes to Utah to die?" 

That was Frank. We love you and miss you like crazy, Dad!