It has now been over 30 years since my dad, Kermit Burley, Sr. passed on. He was 78 years old and was also the hardest working man I have ever known. He was a doughnut baker for most of his life, although he also toiled as a farmer and milk delivery driver, among other professions. However,it was as a doughnut baker that I knew him and he always worked the third shift so the doughnuts could be deliciously ready for hungry commuters driving to their jobs in western New York. I never remember him calling in sick. Not once, not ever.
He was not a tall man, but he had incredible strength. He lifted dozens of sacks of flour around on a nightly basis, even though he constantly smoked cigarettes for most of his life. And he chose the unfiltered ones, too. So another memory of my father was that he coughed a lot, especially when he first woke up. This deeply influenced me. I have never smoked and never will. He also liked to have the occasional beer or his favorite whiskey..Wilson “That’s all.” He was not a drunk by any standard, but he also gave me my first beer, at the tender age of 14. Carling Black label was his choice while we watched the baseball game of the week with Curt Gowdy. I remember that it tasted terrible, simply horrible. He told me that beer was an acquired taste…something that I later learned was very true. I never acquired a taste for Carling, however, but I have managed to try most of the easily available options.
While my dad worked nights and toiled 6 days a week for most of his life, he still found time to introduce me to the beautiful game of baseball. He attended as many of my games as he could and sponsored many of the teams I played on. I now suspect that was one of the main reasons I made those teams and almost always started…in left field. That is one of the positions I later learned was reserved for the less talented players. But they always told me it was because I was left handed and the other position I could have played, first base, seemed to always go to the son of the coach. He was also left handed and my best friend, so it really did not matter. All of this did not ever dampen my love of baseball. I played as long as I could, coached my son until it became obvious that there were other better and more talented coaches out there and even announced a few games when my son made the traveling team. I still attend as many live baseball games as possible and watch major league baseball on television almost every night. All of that, because of my dad.
The thing I remember most about him, however was his crazy sense of humor. He loved to tell jokes and had many sayings that I quote to this very day. Once, when waiting for a car to make a left turn, the green arrow appeared and the car in front of us never budged. He rolled down the window and yelled out, “What are you waiting for? The green Indian?” He was also never politically correct. He told me once that he understood that drivers are entitled to half the road…the middle half..and they should insist on their rights! I still laugh at that one. He could also be just a bit vulgar. One of his favorite sayings, one that I use myself even now, is, “Why are there more horse’s asses than horses?” It took me many years to figure out and fully appreciate the true brilliance of that simple question.
My dad was also quietly quite the soft heart. You would never know it unless you looked deep within the surface. He did not like to brag..He gave away doughnuts to the hungry, long before it became popular. He firmly believed that no one should ever go hungry and I frequently caught him giving away doughnuts as “presents” when people did not have the money to pay for them. I, myself, never knew that people had to pay for doughnuts until I was 22 years old and married. I even worked with my dad in his bakery, to help put myself through college. I was nowhere near the baker he was and, in fact, I eventually ended up driving the doughnut truck, taking his doughnuts to the stores that did not have a baker. It was there that I first witnessed how hard he actually worked. He was on his feet the entire time he baked, moving all the time, over a hot oven, filled with grease, turning the doughnuts with what I called a baton. And he never once complained. I did not fully appreciate that incredible work ethic until I was married and working the night shift in a convenience store. How he worked like he did, I will never know. I admire that work ethic very, very much. And he did it for his family.
I was fortunate enough that he was still with us when I was married. He had to wear a tuxedo, which I knew he hated. He loathed ties, always referencing some distant relative who, he claimed, was hung for stealing horses. (There are those confounding horses again.) At my wedding, he claimed that he looked like a penguin. A short, balding man in late sixties, walking down the aisle and taking up the gifts to the altar. We have a picture of that procession in our wedding album and I have to admit, he was correct. With the black tails of his tuxedo almost reaching the ground and his sore feet hobbling him, he did, indeed, closely resemble a penguin. I suspect, though, that he totally enjoyed the event. The last of his two children was finally out of the house!
He constantly insisted that I never follow in his footsteps, although I often tried. I wanted to buy a doughnut shop, set him up as my baker and get rich. He made the best doughnuts ever! At every turn, he discouraged me and even told me once that he would not be that baker and did not want me ever to become one. He knew how hard he worked and he knew the cost that the night shift took on our family. Over and over he told me to “Get a good education,” and he was so proud of me when I graduated from college. His wish had come true. I never again baked a single doughnut, although I will admit that I still eat them, much more than I should. It must be in my genes.
We lost him in early May 0f 1984. I was away on business, on the west coast, not making doughnuts. I was training a group of supervisors and learned of his death from my wife when she picked me up at the airport. The man who taught me so much by example, deed and word, was felled by a stomach aneurysm. At least his passing was swift. He never wanted to linger as a “vegetable,” and he never did. His work was finally over. His journey complete. Now he could rest.
He told us to not mourn his passing, even insisting that we have a picnic on his grave. He often would declare that we should not visit his grave, preferring to have us tell him how we felt while he was still alive. Unfortunately, I must have listened to him, visiting his grave very infrequently, as I no longer live in Buffalo. When I do visit, I remember his words, but have not, as of yet, had that picnic. My sister is planning that event, however, and I suspect that one day in the near future, our family will gather at that grave and have our picnic. Just like they do on the ‘Day of the Dead.” I wonder if he knew about that marvelous and stunning event when he told us about his desire for a picnic. We will sing his favorite songs, something from his beloved vaudeville days, I am sure, tell stories, much like what I have written above, and I know that there will be doughnuts on the menu..plenty of doughnuts. And maybe, just maybe, a shot or two of whiskey will be consumed; no, I am certain that will happen. I will lift my glass to the sky and proudly declare that I now know why there are more horse’s asses than horses. And we will all smile and laugh…exactly what he would have wanted. Go with God, Dad. We will never forget you! You are with us every day.