Remembering a man whose family meant everything to him

On Sunday we’ll be facing our first Father’s Day without my father-in-law, Carl Gouger.

As the name Gouger would imply, he was a Pennsylvania Dutch fellow who grew up in Little Gap and attended a one-room schoolhouse. He worked with the furnace at Bethlehem Steel and won’t be remembered by millions for great accomplishments. Instead, he’ll be remembered by all the people whose lives he encountered with his great love.

When I married Ronnie, Carl began signing my birthday cards as “Dad.” He wasn’t my “Dad,” yet he quickly welcomed me as a daughter.

Family was everything to him.

Carl was 89 and had been relatively healthy until seven months before he died. His shoulders were weary from carrying a torch for his wife, Elizabeth, who died in 1998. She was truly the light of his life.

The grandchildren and great-grandchildren too were special.

When Ronnie went through a divorce, Carl and Elizabeth stepped in to help raise his boys. They were the second set of parents.

Carl and Elizabeth wouldn’t miss their sons’ sporting events or the grandchildren’s games. Our nieces say they could count on looking up and see Memmy and Pappy sitting in their lawn chairs under the tree.

He would never be too busy for a family event, especially if his grandchildren were coming. Many nights he fought back yawns because he wouldn’t leave a second before the kids did. He didn’t want to miss one moment.

He was always ready to go somewhere with no notice, whether it was to Philly to visit our sons or to Cabela’s with my husband to buy hunting gear.

And he’d read every road sign and gas station price along the way and then remark about it.

Carl’s heart was failing, but his mind was sharp as ever. He knew what was going on in the news and often remembered directions better than we did.

Whenever he went to the hospital, he told the nurses about the day he quit smoking — at 5 a.m. Feb. 26, 1953. The story he told was that he was at work and when he took a cigarette out of the pack, he coughed. He said “that’s it” and he threw the cigarettes in the furnace.

That was it and we’re not even going to talk about his stubborn streak.

Carl enjoyed talking to people on the phone and always seemed interested in anything we called to tell him. He loved to gloat, whether it was because his hard-boiled eggs peeled easily and mine didn’t, the grandchildren called him instead of us or when our favorite sports teams lost. Sometimes he’d pretend he didn’t know the outcome of games. “Did the Phillies win?” he’d ask just so we’d have to admit our teams lost.

He loved to watch for things. He’d sit on the porch in the extreme heat and wait for the mail and newspaper to be delivered.

He insisted he didn’t want to be bothered with a hummingbird feeder. We put one up anyway, and he’d call us and tell us whenever the hummingbird was there.

Same with planting tomatoes and dahlias. He didn’t want them, but he’d water them and walk out to the side of the house to check their daily progress. Then he’d call to say his tomatoes would be ripe before ours. “I’ll have one before Fourth of July,” he’d say. He didn’t but he’d still go on predicting.

This year, I found a tomato variety called Fourth of July that promises ripe tomatoes by Independence Day. I plunked down my money and took it home and planted it.

It’s thriving in my garden, and yes, we’re on target for a ripe tomato by the Fourth.

We’ll pick it and have a toast of sorts: “This one’s for you, Carl.”