The greatness of America, from Dick the Bruiser to Helen Keller

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It was July 4, 1964. I'd just been awakened by Dad's way-too-giddy laughter.

"Mom, what's wrong with Dad?"

"Oh, he's just in a good mood. You know how he enjoys the Fourth of July."

She added that "your father" was in an even better mood than usual, because his Twins had won three straight against the Yankees and five of his Twins had just been named to the American League All-Star Team. A fan herself, she ticked off their names: Camilo Pascual, Bob Allison, Harmon Killebrew, Jimmie Hall and Bill Pleis.

"Besides, your father has some extraordinary news he'll tell you about."

When your father, day in and day out, moodlessly shaves, dresses, munches his bran, departs for work, comes home, eats Mom's dinner and then heads for the den — but suddenly one morning you awake to his belly laughs — well, it's worrisome.

Dad never had much to do with our family's social calendar. That was Mom's department. But this time, he took out his ubiquitous pocket notepad and Papermate ballpoint and made a list — his modus operandi. It looked like this:

9 a.m.: Purchase wieners and fixings at Piggly Wiggly.

12 p.m.: North Commons Park activities with family:

a. [Uncle] Fred and [Aunt] Muriel

c. [Grandmas] Ida and Minnie

8:30 p.m.: Drive Dick and one friend to Metropolitan Stadium.

10 p.m.: Fireworks show.

Dad always knew the Twins schedule by heart. I nervously pointed out the error in his itinerary. The Twins were playing at Yankee Stadium, not here at the Met.

Upon which he pulled the sports section from the morning Tribune and pointed at the headline:

I did: "Gagne, Crusher wrestle tonight … The championship bout between Verne Gagne and the Crusher headlines tonight's professional wrestling attraction at Metropolitan Stadium."

The card also featured "an unusual tag team bout with two 3-man teams" that included my favorite heroes and villains: Sailor Art Thomas, Mitsu Arakawa and Hans Schmidt. And then: "The first bout starts at 9 p.m. with a fireworks display to follow the main event."

"Invite a friend, and have a ball," Dad said. "Your mother and I will drive you. We're going to the movies and then fireworks."

Dad never told me to "have a ball" at anything. And a movie? Dad hated movies.

Next he took me to Kilroy's on Lake Street. We waited until two counter stools opened up in front of the grill so I could watch Stanislav, my favorite cook there, flip flapjacks and American fries with the dexterity of a magician.

He pointed at another article, this one a front-page headline.

"Now read this."

I did: "Johnson picks 30 to receive gold medal."

Knowing Dad, I figured it was about sports. It wasn't.

Over flapjacks and American fries, Dad practically lectured me about several of President Lyndon Johnson's recipients for that year's Presidential Medal of Freedom listed in the article. I marveled at how my dad — this man whose life seemed to revolve around the discount shoe business, the Twins, his bowling league and golf — could possibly know and care so much about the likes of Helen Keller, Edward R. Murrow, Aaron Copland, Dr. Lena Edwards, John Steinbeck, Leontyne Price and Carl Sandburg?

That night, after Verne Gagne disposed of Dick the Bruiser (a last-minute replacement for the "injured" Crusher), my friend Hershey and I watched fireworks explode beautifully beyond center field. About the same time, after taking in "Viva Las Vegas," Mom and Dad sat on their blanket at North Commons Park where, Mom reminded me, they'd watched fireworks together as teenage sweethearts.

It was also reported to me the next morning that Dad's good mood lasted well into the night, but practically all he'd talk about was "the president's freedom awards."

Decades later I tracked down Dad's news article from that July 4th morning. In it, LBJ was quoted declaring that the winners had "made man's world safe, his physical body more durable, his mind broader, his leisure more delightful, his standards of living higher and his dignity important."

It's not perfect, but what a country we live in.