By John Oberstar

“Okay, Dad, but not right now. Maybe later, O.K.?”

Back at the old homestead

I’m back at home again. Not the house I bought in California, but The Original Home where I grew up in with my parents. I love my folks, but truth be told, I don’t like coming back to The Home anymore. The only times I stop by these days is when business takes me through Chicago. Then I arrange to spend some time with the folks like I am doing now. 

I used to think what kept me away from here was that I felt like a 15-year-old again. This time though, I think it might be something else.

My Dad, the ultimate craftsman

My father, Ivan Oberstar, has been an electrical contractor ever since he left Yugoslavia at the end of World War II. He is an Old World craftsman of wire and conduit.

When I was growing up, Dad used to take me or my brother on jobs with him. My younger brother loved working with my Dad. For me, it was mostly a drag. but it did have its benefits. We got to see other people’s homes and how they lived. We were “free labor” but could actually help him out on the tougher jobs. And the biggest one: it was a chance to be with my father who wasn’t home much because he was always working to provide for the family.

I remember being 11 and waiting with my Dad at City Hall for a permit when a city inspector pulled me aside. "Your father’s a good man, boy. We stopped inspecting his jobs years ago. No reason to. Sometimes I tell the guys who fail inspections to go out and take a look at one of your Dad’s jobs. You listen to your father and you’ll be fine." Because of Dad’s thick accent and his war-shortened education I always saw that people underestimated him. However, from that city hall day on, I felt proud of my Dad and the work he did. In his profession and in his life, Dad has always been an honest man with a lot of integrity. He retired eight years ago. Nowadays he occasionally freelances for friends, widows or churches.

Why so insistent?

On this weekend home with my parents, it’s Friday evening and we’re having dinner.

“John, I have so many tools at home I can’t use no more. Why don’t you choose some and I send to you.”

“Okay, Dad, but not right now. Maybe later, O.K.?”

Saturday noon, lunch ...

“John, can we go down in beesement and look at tools?”

“Ah, Dad. Can’t we do that later? Let’s watch Star Trek right now.”

Saturday evening, dinner with parents and brother ...

“Why don’t you two go downstairs and look at tools? I tink you need more dan me.”

“Come on, Dad. What am I going to do with that huge tripod mounted pipe bender or that monster cable cutter of yours? Give me a break.”

Sunday morning ...

“John, ve go downstairs now and choose tools. No more bullsheet.”

“OK, OK. Let’s go.”

Why so resistant?

So here we are in the "beesement." Dad pulls open a drawer filled with a lifetime’s worth of wire cutters, crimpers, screwdrivers, and you-name-it. He picks up this huge pair of channel locks and looks at them wistfully.

“Boy, dees bring back old jobs, huh John? Remember when …”

I don’t answer because I’ve left the room in tears as soon as he opened the drawer. I walk and walk until I finally realize why I didn’t want to go down to the “beesement”, why I didn’t want to look at Dad’s cherished tools. His insistence in giving them to me felt like a parting act before he dies. And I was nowhere near ready to face his mortality, which reminded of my own.

After composing myself and returning to the house, I find Dad and apologize for walking out.

“Dad, the real reason I’ve been resisting looking at your tools is I’m afraid it means you’re going to die soon.”

“Ah sheet, John, it just mean I have tree pair channel locks and only need one. Mom and me is still healthy.”

We hug each other.

Dad’s legacy

The tools my father gave me are special. They sit in my best toolbox among my best tools, although they are neither the newest nor the best. His sweat and new-country dreams permeate these tools, and when I hold them I remember my father’s professionalism, integrity, and his life. I’m saving these tools for my son so he too can feel his grandfather’s strength and life.

Key Take-aways:

• My Dad, an immigrant, was a master craftsman and an honest man with a lot of integrity.

• Visiting him after he retired, he wanted to give me some of his tools, but I was reluctant.

• I realized my resistance to Dad’s passing his tools on to me was my discomfort with his mortality and mine.

• I accepted Dad’s tools to remind me and my sons of my Dad.