There are endless characteristics and rituals I remember about my dad. His friends knew him as Frank, but his given name was Francis Leandro. During the week he woke at 5 a.m., sat up in his bed and lit a Benson & Hedges 100's cigarette. He drank Folger's Instant Coffee. He wore a starched white shirt, with a tie and suit every day to work. He slicked back his coal-colored hair with Vitalis, then he slapped on Old Spice aftershave.

He sold fish to local grocery markets and restaurants. After work each day, he walked through the front door with a six-pack of Falstaff beer underneath his arm. Every Friday night, he brought home from work fresh shrimp and live lobsters for dinner. Saturday afternoons the kitchen was all his. Pickled pig's feet boiled in a pot on the stove. In the oven pig snoots sizzled on a baking sheet. He watched television shows like the "Flintstones" and "The Lawrence Welk Show." In the evenings, he wore a red velvet smoking jacket with black lapels, and he smoked a pipe packed with cherry tobacco.

However, if anyone asked me how he celebrated June 15 every year, I can't recall. I can recall many of my father's days -- days other than June 15. For instance, the day my dad moved a couch to the basement.

My mom said, "Absolutely no." My parents, five brothers and I lived in a small six-room house. I can only surmise that dad wanted his privacy. A place he could smoke cigarettes and drink beer in peace -- away from his wife's disapproving eye. "I'm going to have my hair done. The couch stays upstairs," my mom said. "Humph. Wants to move a couch to the basement. He's nuts," she mumbled.

As soon as my mom's car pulled out of the driveway, my dad scooted and pushed the 6-foot long couch from the living room, through the dining room, through the narrow galley kitchen to the basement landing. Go, Dad! He never went against my mom. He must've really wanted his own space.

He maneuvered the couch around a 90-degree corner to the basement landing. Impressive, I thought. Then he lifted the couch upright, wedging the couch between the floor and the ceiling. He jingled the change in his pockets. Something he did when he thought about something really hard.

He lit a cigarette, flipped the snoots in the oven and popped open a beer. "Boys, get in here!" he yelled.

My brothers cried out, "Mom's gonna kill you." And they ran out of the house.

"Dang kids," he grunted, and pushed the sofa down the stairs.

"Dad!" I yelled.

"Not a problem. It landed right side up."

The couch landed between the stairwell's walls. My dad slivered his 6-foot, 120-pound frame between the couch and wall. His plan, once again I could only surmise, was to squeeze in front of the couch and then pull the couch down the steps. But the couch slipped and pinned him to the wall. "I'm OK," he cried out.

He wiggled and squirmed trying to free himself. The couch slipped further down the steps. "Call Ed," he yelled. Ed lived in the house across the street from us -- he had witnessed many of my father's days.

Ed peered down the staircase, "You alright, Frank?"

"Yeah. Help yourself to a beer."

"You can't move at all?" Ed asked.

"No."

Ed finished his beer, then tried to lift the couch off my dad. After an hour of trying Ed said, "I'm calling the fire department."

A brain-teaser for even a fireman. They were unable to lift the couch off my dad and had to use their axes to knock out both basement walls. My mom arrived home before the firemen could extract my dad. Lucky for my dad medical personnel were on the scene.

My dad never got his own room in the basement. And the couch, my mom made my dad and Ed carry it back upstairs.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.
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