Dad and Me March 2012 |
Looking out
today I see many familiar faces of family and friends . . . It is such a
healing gift to be surrounded by your love for my father. Thank you for coming
and showing my family and me that he holds a special place in your heart too.
I have struggled
to find the right words, the right stories that would speak truly of my father
. . . he was an example that I looked up too, an inspiration. We didn’t
always see eye to eye. It wasn't always easy being with him, but so what? Easy
doesn't always equal good. Being a father isn't always easy. Or being a
husband, or a friend, for that matter. But he was a damn good man.
You see, I had a father for 82 years and have only NOT had a
father for four days, so any thing I say today must be understood as the words
of someone only four days old. But
still I will try. Indeed, this
trying - this effort to accomplish the seemingly impossible - is a gift I’ve
received from my dad.
He was the
most tenacious person I knew.
Ferocious, focused and fueled by a need to be his own man, accomplishing
this in countless ways well into his later years. To him, it wasn’t “my way or the highway,” it was “my way or
the my way.” The right way and
dad’s way were one and the same. Especially when it came to doing things with
his hands.
Dad had
mastered the craft of a carpenter; building the house my brother and I grew up
in. There was always a project to
be done, whether for family or friends who had hired him. I remember when I was
young, the joy I’d have on Saturday mornings, climbing into his old pick up
truck, with the rattles and creeks as he shifted the huge gear shift sticking
out of the floor as we went to the hardware store to get his list of
supplies.
He’d hustle
me along as I meandered and stared in amazement at all the tools and bins and
bins of nails. I’m sure I talked
non-stop, with question after question.
But since I was asking about something he was interested in and knowledgeable
about, the answers were full of patience and explanations. He was always introducing me, “This is
my baby.” Today, I am a professional seamstress/fashion designer and my brother
is a woodworker, I know that our creative processes and workmanship skills were
imbedded in us from Dad and his love of the perfection of carpentry.
However, carpentry wasn’t the only thing Dad did with his
hands. He was a skilled chef . . .
though he always referred to himself as a cook. But I know he could stand up
against some of the greatest names out there. Maybe not in finesse, but for sure in taste and flavor! He learned the skill of this trade
while in the army, his food was simple but he could take a recipe for four and
easily make it just as delicious for 400.
I would sit in the kitchen chair, watch him and observe . .
. chopping, dicing, slicing . . . taking tastes, adding more of one ingredient
then a sprinkle of this and a dash of that. I learned much during those years of watching him. And once
again . . . I’m so like my Dad. I
have the same passion for cooking, perhaps a bit more refined with varied
ethnicities than him, but there’s no denying where my drive came from. The
kitchen was the first place I headed when I got the phone call from Mom of his
passing. It gives me the same serenity and peace that it gave him.
The past several years, he’d love when I cooked dinner and
provided for him. Sometimes he was
never quite sure what it was that he was eating, but “um um, this is
good.” I always felt I’d earned
his respect in the kitchen when I prepared all the food for their 50th
wedding anniversary. It was so
difficult for him to take that step back and watch, but he did. And after that,
every time he spoke of that day, the gleam in his blue eyes twinkled with
pride.
Mom and Dad have been together over 61 years now. Yes, today is about him and the
celebration of his life. But I
want to take a moment to thank her for the love, support and care she has given
him. Many days and times were
difficult, but she made his life richer, fuller and rewarding. My father's last years were not easy.
Always used to being in control, he found it hard to concede to the body's
imperfection and the growing need to depend on Mom for support. Always a giver,
now he had to receive. Always
the one in charge, now he was the charge of others. Mom took on that role and did it well. For that I am eternally grateful.
Up until recently, I’d work with Dad on what he’d want to
get Mom for Christmas. Often times
my picking something up for him, then showing it to him before it was wrapped
and placed under the tree. Sometimes he’d know exactly what he wanted but felt
the need to check with me to see if she’d like it. He never wanted to disappoint her. The earrings she wore last night . . . I’d forgotten about
them until she put them on. Dad
and I had snuck off together one day, who knows what errand we told her we were
doing, and went to the jewelry store.
He’d had them all picked out but was unsure of them. I knew immediately Mom would love
them!! And she did.
Dad and I had just spoken last Tuesday. I’d called from my vacation to check up
on them after hearing of the storms in the area. As always, Mom said, “Here,
talk to your Dad” then she proceeded to hand him the phone, not waiting for my
reply. We chatted a bit and he closed with, “We just called to check up on you
. . .” I chuckled to myself, not bothering to correct him. “All right Dad, I’m doing good and I’ll
see you soon” I replied. Little did I know that I really would be seeing him
soon, less than a week later lying in his casket. So many telephone
conversations I never could have recalled what we spoke about, but this one,
for some reason, gave me a laugh and a smile. I’m so grateful I have those
final words to keep in my heart and stash in my memory. I know he’ll always be checking up on
me.
Dad, today your body is going to a place I’m not ready
for. You’ll have to go there
alone. But we’ll all join you some
day, and I will look forward to that time when we can raise a glass and toast
to our memories and live in eternal peace together forever and ever.
Rest in peace, waltz the night away and know that I love
you. Always have. Always will. You’re my Dad, and a damn good man.