My Dad died, three years ago, January 8th. This is the first year that my Mom has felt more like marking the day with the laughs and memories that she focuses on during the rest of the year, than on what it was like to slowly lose him over three years. She's a funny woman, and my Dad was a wit too, so this mindset is a good thing.
Maybe it really settled in over Thanksgiving and Christmas. My family and I spent time looking through old photo albums, which gave any one of we grown-ups good reason to tell the kids all sorts of stories. Most of them, mostly true. Or, our version of the truth. For example, there is no arguing that each year my July birthday party was at the Woodland Hills Swim Club. There are lots of squishy-looking pictures of my sisters, friends, and cousins celebrating in flashy bathing suits. And, no arguing that my incredible Mom made a double-layer chocolate-iced chocolate birthday cake each July, despite knowing it would slide and melt into an unrecognizable gooey blob in the heat (not, a bad thing). But after that, facts start to scramble. Example - comment from person 1..."remember so-and-so peed in the pool so often that our eyes turned yellow?", followed by person 2..."no, so-and-so actually turned the snow yellow sledding the winter of the teacher's strike". Forget for a second the "ewww" factor. Honestly, how mixed up could we all be?
And so it is with stories of my Dad. Even while he was alive and well, one of us would have a much different memory of a certain Dad thing than everyone else. And sometimes, no memory of it at all. Like, one Christmas Eve years ago, my Dad stopped the car at one of the best homes in the "rich" neighborhood we cruised each year after Christmas Mass (looking at the lights, not to break and enter), because my Mom felt sick. Forgive us, but she left the car dressed in her Christmas dress and high heels, to throw up on the yard decorations while we sat and watched. We all remember that. What I wish I'd paid attention to was my Dad, who apparently said as she bent over and heaved, "God! She has great legs." I missed the best part, as it was happening. But, one of my sisters caught it, thankfully for the rest of us.
It's interesting what happened to Dad stories, when he died. I didn't truly begin to appreciate my Dad until my late 20's, which might be true for lots of people. I think that's true for my sisters, too. The dozen years or so from that point on were a gift, just because our perceptions shifted, and we paid closer attention. So I thought I grew to know him very well. But in the last month of his life and the first weeks after his death, I got to eavesdrop on and be the audience for stories about my Dad. Other people filled in blanks I didn't think were missing. For example, I knew he was a veteran. One veteran buddy I'd never met, visited my Dad often in the rehab facility he was working so hard to come home from. A week or so before Christmas, his buddy was leaving Dad's room as I got there, and he was there again a few days later. That time, I got to listen while they chatted and laughed awhile. About little things, details I never thought to associate with my Dad. My heart grew three times as big (with apologies, to the Grinch). I wished that I hadn't turned down his many invitations to hang out at the VFW with he and his buddies (apparently because I couldn't fit it in for one reason or another - silly). His buddy was one of many loved ones who came to support my Dad while he was in a place he'd rather not have been. And I got to see a lot of it, and appreciate that he had a big, wide, full life beyond my sisters and I.
At the funeral home and in the days after, I met more veteran buddies, and saw great-aunts and cousins and decades-long friends of my parents that I hadn't been with in years. Of course there were lots of stories, some I'd heard, and many I hadn't. But the biggest turned out to be...how much my Dad meant. Just that. Which is everything, I guess. He wasn't perfect - he'd be the first to tell you that. But he was imperfectly perfect - perfectly, him. His loved ones cried and laughed comforting my Mom, and the rest of us. I wouldn't worry about paying for grad school if I had a dime for each time I heard someone tell us - with bona fide fervor - what a true gentleman he was, what a beautiful and strong-willed soul he has, what a trusted and dependable friend/cousin/nephew/co-worker/soldier/neighbor/athletic teammate/citizen he was. Not just once, but again and again. My Mom still hears it through the cards, visits and emails that folks make sure she gets throughout the year.
I know I'm inadvertently leaving out lots of adjectives and accolades. My Dad deserves all of them. I hope I told him enough how proud I was of that, and that I love that......he was a big reason that veterans will benefit from the new VA Hospital in Washington, Pa, which he pestered local politicians for (firmly, and diplomatically). Love that he bounced back from job losses and career disappointments, and from health issues he hid from my sisters and I so that we wouldn't worry. Love that he adored the Food Network even though he could only make popcorn and coleslaw. Love that he was patient enough with us to throw pitch after pitch, and help us plant a vegetable garden in the backyard, and let us dance on his feet, and let us make mistakes if it meant we'd be a student of them. Love that he cried when he found the perfect spot for the grave of the dog he had a love-hate relationship with for over a dozen years, and cried when he accidently mowed over a bunny den hidden in the yard. That he wasn't afraid to show rage when I became a crime victim, or when others experienced an injustice. Love that he sat in the front yard with me some nights and pretended that he could also see the astronauts hopping along on the moon (I SWEAR, I did). Love that he made me chase down tennis balls and shoot baskets til I hit them right. That he was the biggest, most heartfelt cheerleader to the patients alongside him in the hospital or physical rehab, and to his loved ones throughout all their lives. Love that he loved my Mom so openly, and admired her legs til the day he died. That he was the most appreciative Grandpa that ever walked. That he loved to laugh at Will Ferrell with us. That near the end, he let me wheel him to Mass, and help him in the bathroom, and told me he wasn't afraid to die anymore.
My Mom and sisters, and other loved ones, have their own lengthy love notes to my Dad. And though he's not here they're still being written, by us all.
His funeral prayer card included this verse from 2 Timothy: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith". And so you did, Dad. Perfectly.
Maybe it really settled in over Thanksgiving and Christmas. My family and I spent time looking through old photo albums, which gave any one of we grown-ups good reason to tell the kids all sorts of stories. Most of them, mostly true. Or, our version of the truth. For example, there is no arguing that each year my July birthday party was at the Woodland Hills Swim Club. There are lots of squishy-looking pictures of my sisters, friends, and cousins celebrating in flashy bathing suits. And, no arguing that my incredible Mom made a double-layer chocolate-iced chocolate birthday cake each July, despite knowing it would slide and melt into an unrecognizable gooey blob in the heat (not, a bad thing). But after that, facts start to scramble. Example - comment from person 1..."remember so-and-so peed in the pool so often that our eyes turned yellow?", followed by person 2..."no, so-and-so actually turned the snow yellow sledding the winter of the teacher's strike". Forget for a second the "ewww" factor. Honestly, how mixed up could we all be?
And so it is with stories of my Dad. Even while he was alive and well, one of us would have a much different memory of a certain Dad thing than everyone else. And sometimes, no memory of it at all. Like, one Christmas Eve years ago, my Dad stopped the car at one of the best homes in the "rich" neighborhood we cruised each year after Christmas Mass (looking at the lights, not to break and enter), because my Mom felt sick. Forgive us, but she left the car dressed in her Christmas dress and high heels, to throw up on the yard decorations while we sat and watched. We all remember that. What I wish I'd paid attention to was my Dad, who apparently said as she bent over and heaved, "God! She has great legs." I missed the best part, as it was happening. But, one of my sisters caught it, thankfully for the rest of us.
It's interesting what happened to Dad stories, when he died. I didn't truly begin to appreciate my Dad until my late 20's, which might be true for lots of people. I think that's true for my sisters, too. The dozen years or so from that point on were a gift, just because our perceptions shifted, and we paid closer attention. So I thought I grew to know him very well. But in the last month of his life and the first weeks after his death, I got to eavesdrop on and be the audience for stories about my Dad. Other people filled in blanks I didn't think were missing. For example, I knew he was a veteran. One veteran buddy I'd never met, visited my Dad often in the rehab facility he was working so hard to come home from. A week or so before Christmas, his buddy was leaving Dad's room as I got there, and he was there again a few days later. That time, I got to listen while they chatted and laughed awhile. About little things, details I never thought to associate with my Dad. My heart grew three times as big (with apologies, to the Grinch). I wished that I hadn't turned down his many invitations to hang out at the VFW with he and his buddies (apparently because I couldn't fit it in for one reason or another - silly). His buddy was one of many loved ones who came to support my Dad while he was in a place he'd rather not have been. And I got to see a lot of it, and appreciate that he had a big, wide, full life beyond my sisters and I.
At the funeral home and in the days after, I met more veteran buddies, and saw great-aunts and cousins and decades-long friends of my parents that I hadn't been with in years. Of course there were lots of stories, some I'd heard, and many I hadn't. But the biggest turned out to be...how much my Dad meant. Just that. Which is everything, I guess. He wasn't perfect - he'd be the first to tell you that. But he was imperfectly perfect - perfectly, him. His loved ones cried and laughed comforting my Mom, and the rest of us. I wouldn't worry about paying for grad school if I had a dime for each time I heard someone tell us - with bona fide fervor - what a true gentleman he was, what a beautiful and strong-willed soul he has, what a trusted and dependable friend/cousin/nephew/co-worker/soldier/neighbor/athletic teammate/citizen he was. Not just once, but again and again. My Mom still hears it through the cards, visits and emails that folks make sure she gets throughout the year.
I know I'm inadvertently leaving out lots of adjectives and accolades. My Dad deserves all of them. I hope I told him enough how proud I was of that, and that I love that......he was a big reason that veterans will benefit from the new VA Hospital in Washington, Pa, which he pestered local politicians for (firmly, and diplomatically). Love that he bounced back from job losses and career disappointments, and from health issues he hid from my sisters and I so that we wouldn't worry. Love that he adored the Food Network even though he could only make popcorn and coleslaw. Love that he was patient enough with us to throw pitch after pitch, and help us plant a vegetable garden in the backyard, and let us dance on his feet, and let us make mistakes if it meant we'd be a student of them. Love that he cried when he found the perfect spot for the grave of the dog he had a love-hate relationship with for over a dozen years, and cried when he accidently mowed over a bunny den hidden in the yard. That he wasn't afraid to show rage when I became a crime victim, or when others experienced an injustice. Love that he sat in the front yard with me some nights and pretended that he could also see the astronauts hopping along on the moon (I SWEAR, I did). Love that he made me chase down tennis balls and shoot baskets til I hit them right. That he was the biggest, most heartfelt cheerleader to the patients alongside him in the hospital or physical rehab, and to his loved ones throughout all their lives. Love that he loved my Mom so openly, and admired her legs til the day he died. That he was the most appreciative Grandpa that ever walked. That he loved to laugh at Will Ferrell with us. That near the end, he let me wheel him to Mass, and help him in the bathroom, and told me he wasn't afraid to die anymore.
My Mom and sisters, and other loved ones, have their own lengthy love notes to my Dad. And though he's not here they're still being written, by us all.
His funeral prayer card included this verse from 2 Timothy: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith". And so you did, Dad. Perfectly.
Wonderful tribute to an everyday man turned personal hero for the people he loved and life that he cared about.
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