Robert Ero Kutsi. Dad.
Grocery shopping was one of my favorite things to do with my dad. There were seven of us so it seemed like we were always making a trip to Red Owl or Juba's for something. Mom would make the list and Dad would do the shopping. The actual list was a loose guideline - he'd always toss extra stuff in the cart. By the time we left we'd have row upon row of brown paper bags lined up in the back seat of the car. Then when we arrived home and a box of Little Debbies was pulled out of the bag, he'd always say, "Oh, I can't believe it. That little old lady must've been sneaking things into my cart again." Every time.
Of course everyone knows he was Mr. Golf. Always golfing, talking about golf, teaching golf lessons, coaching the golf team, relaying his last round shot by shot. (I'm really not exaggerating here.) I cannot say the same for myself, but it was always fun to hang out in the clubhouse and drink iced tea. Sometimes we'd go down to the driving range or the putting green and just mess about.
When I was in Junior High I decided to join the golf team as my brothers and sister had before me. Not really a perfect match - my skills were sadly lacking but I gave it a go anyway. At the time I was much more interested in Cyndi Lauper and David Lee Roth, and my fashion sense was '80s over-the-top vintage all the way. When it came time to take the golf team picture for the yearbook, I was wearing something like a long printed skirt topped off with a tuxedo jacket with tails and Converse high-tops. I remember my dad just having a bemused look on his face as I stood there with everyone else in their polo shirts and windbreakers.
Not only was he our golf coach, but he also taught us all eleventh grade English. Most people would probably not be thrilled to have their dad as a teacher, but I always thought it was kind of cool. He also taught the parents of many of my friends, so that was pretty funny too, especially if he told us stories about them being troublemakers. Thankfully he was a teacher most people liked, even when he gave them a hard time, and I was the kind of kid who came home and did my homework after school without a lot of pestering.
His classroom for the longest time was on the third floor in the corner. There were no windows, and he had the ceiling plastered with posters. The one I remember was of Ernest Hemingway, but they weren't all literary or educational - some were just goofy. I liked to go up there after school sometimes when I was younger, and once in awhile he'd let me correct test papers for him. By the time our class came around he'd moved to the second floor to an actual room with windows, but I kinda missed the old one.
For the most part, he just told stories. I think I described him once before as the ultimate storyteller and mischief maker. He was always getting in trouble for not creating a lesson plan - after twenty plus years I doubt you need one - and he'd get way off track. Yet somehow he'd teach you something eventually, or at least entertain you enough to stay interested. And he was fair. If you could give an articulate answer as to why you answered a question the way you did, more often than not he'd give you the benefit of the doubt. He and a fellow teacher, Mr. Wickersham (Wick), were buddies, and I think their storytelling abilities were nearly equally matched. Each of them told stories about the other, and the two of them together were nothing but trouble, in only the most charming of ways.
The story I always remember involved my brother's friend Patty. One day she was tardy or absent, and my dad had to fill out the attendance slip. Well, apparently he got to thinking about lunchtime, because instead of her name he wrote 'Patty Melt' on the slip. The office called him a few minutes later asking, "Bob, what is Patty Melt?" I don't know why that one sticks with me, but it still makes me chuckle.
When I was really young, I used to love when he'd read to me. Both my mom and dad were incredible readers. My dad would ham it up, creating voices for all the different characters. There used to be a series of books called Sweet Pickles, and I remember one character having a temper tantrum in the story. I don't recall if it was a turtle or a duck, or whatever, but my dad went all out. He was huffing and puffing, red in the face, and the voice kept getting funnier and funnier the madder he got. By the end of it, we were both crying from laughter.
He was also a softie. His eyes would tear up easily, then he'd give an embarrassed grin to deflect attention. I guess all the Kutsis are softies.
And he could make friends with anyone. My mom and I would be at the mall shopping, and we'd come out of a store twenty minutes later and he'd be deep into conversation with somebody he'd just met. They'd be sitting there on the bench together as if they'd known one another their entire lives. That always amazed me. My brother Jace has that same talent. He could also spot a fellow Finn a mile away and would make a point of sharing that connection by throwing in some Finnish word or reference. He dressed up as Miss Piggy for the Pork Producers golf tournament. He joked around with every waitress, particularly if they seemed to be a little crabby that day. Then they were really in for it - endless harassment until they finally gave in and smiled.
A perfect man he was not, but he was our dad. I'll miss all of these things about him. I suppose it was his time and he was, as he'd say, "ready ready ready to rock-n-roll."
This photo was taken in August 2011, the last time I got to see him. xo
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