I’m arguably the least sentimental person you might ever meet. I’m not into special occasions (although as a mom, I honestly try) and, while I’m usually on it as far as birthdays, I hardly ever get around to anniversaries (except our own) and I’m the worst when it comes to remembering when someone has died. Ask my sisters, I can’t even remember the years my grandparents died, let alone the months or days. I don’t know why that kind of stuff doesn’t register with me; all I can surmise is that it matters so little to me. I guess I just care that they lived. And I just don’t see death as an end, more of a moving on, so maybe it doesn’t seem much more than a transition. On the other hand, maybe I’m just cold and heartless. There’s always that possibility. I’ve considered it.
But I know this is a hard weekend for my mom and sisters. It was last year at this time, Father’s Day weekend actually, that my dad suddenly died from an unexpected heart attack. A tender way to transition in my mind; I’ve seen so many friends struggling for months as their parents have lingered and the process has been drawn out. I suppose we knew it could happen, but we’d had so many near-misses with my dad over the years that I think we all figured he was invincible and would never perish. He was to be preserved throughout the ages, it seemed. A likely story, we always joked, what with all the rubbish he’d eat, preservative-laden Ding Dongs and tv dinners, Tab and beef jerky. He held out and lived a pretty full and healthy life considering, so nothing could’ve surprised us more when it was the real thing.
As I’ve been talking to my mom and sisters the past couple of days, I think it’s normal to think back and reflect on how the year’s been, where I sit with it all.
To be honest, I think about him every day and hardly at all. It’s as if he’s with me all the time while at the same time not. What I mean is I can be doing the most arbitrary thing and it’ll make me think of my dad, the smell of beef jerky, seeing white walking shoes on sale at Costco. Once in awhile I’ll be driving and wonder how he is, what he’s doing. But days will tick by and I’ll realize I haven’t even thought about him. In my mind, he will come to my side the second I need him, and when I think of him, it’s as if he’s the closest thing to me, right beside me. But on the other hand, I feel he is busy. That he has a lot going on, that he has a life just as I do. And while yes, we’d love to walk and hold hands, sit and talk over extended meals, watch comedy and silly shows, there came a time when he’d have to go out to the upholstery shop and I’d need to get the dishes done. So our time together is the same to me even now.
As I was falling asleep on the eve of this anniversary, I thought about our lives. How some are so short. Others seem to go on and on and on till you think maybe they’re the exceptions and might live forever. I visited my oncologist this week. Usually I don’t take down the Cancer box, I leave it on a shelf with my other souvenirs. Except for when I’m at my plastic surgery appointments, I rarely even connect the dots that my still-tight chest has anything to do with my life expectancy. And yet online and off I’m hearing it all around me, friends whose cancer has come back in places they can’t reach, they’re not doing well, it wakes me up and reminds me that we started out the same. That my life really isn’t my own, that I’m not in charge, and that I may have fewer years left than I’m banking on.
So I guess it’s natural that I’d be a little introspective this week. I thought through my dad’s life briefly as I was falling asleep. And I wondered what the purpose of it was. Because it was pretty uneventful, just normal, we didn’t do a whole lot as a family that impacted many, he wasn’t famous or even well-known outside of his small circle of family and friends. I just couldn’t help but wonder what lives like this—like the majority of our lives—mean. More pointedly, did he fulfill his mission? What was his mission? Did he do what he was meant to do? And are any of us?
And of course I immediately felt that of course he did. Because I know in a million tiny ways so many of us are better because of him and the way he lived. I don’t have proof or any documentation from those outside our family, but I know he made all the difference in my life and in our family. I love the example he gave of how to treat the poor, the men he encountered that he’d bring coats and blankets to, that he’d buy food for. I love how he never held a grudge and always forgave. Sure he had a temper and lost his patience, most of my family’s like that. And yes, he watched a lot of tv and liked his sleep, same with the rest of the family. But I love that he was loving nearly to a fault. We hated his slobbery kisses and aftershave-laden hugs as kids, but there wasn’t a doubt in the world that his kids were his everything. I know it’s weird for a 40-something year-old to hold hands with her dad, but I didn’t care. (Like I’ve ever played by the cool rules.) I suppose I knew I would always be his little girl, and I get it. Now that I have sons bigger than a lot of men, I still want to cuddle them and hug on them. He loved like that. To the core. I love how childlike he was, excited by the small things in life like a good meal, a trip to the mountains, a trip into town, a good show, a hot fudge malt (seriously, who wouldn’t??), new jeans at a bargain price, and certainly a road trip to see the grandkids.
I love that he smiled and talked to everyone. We’re all doing it these days. I wonder what he thinks about that. I love that he was clean, that he liked a tidy house, that he took such good care of his van and his tools and his furniture. I liked that he talked about God a lot. That he prayed even when he had no idea we’d be watching.
I loved getting his letters back in college. He’d send pages and pages. Nearly weekly. And would overnight me $20 for the weekend. His special occasion cards were always from the top row, the most ornate available, the best choices for showcasing his love. Enthusiastic and focused when he had his mind set on something. Same with house plans and furniture sketches, his attention span would impress any teacher. He taught me to share my feelings in writing, to show love unabashedly, to follow my dreams, to live true to who I felt to be, to not worry if it wasn’t fashionable or what everyone else was doing, just stick with things I love. His confidence eventually made its way through my stubbornness and is happily being applied to his grandchildren, whose confidence knows no bounds. What a great gift to leave for future generations.
He taught me and my sisters to work hard. He worked six and sometimes seven days a week for almost all of his adult life. But even in that there’s a lesson: follow your heart, use your talents, spend time on something you love and you’re good at. I think upholstery was not only his life’s work, but his passion. I love how he did quality work, matching up the stripes on the cushions to the stripes on the back of the couch. I like how he’d take it apart if it wasn’t working. He taught me it’s better to leave a project that isn’t working and take a break, go back in the morning. My sisters are two of the hardest workers I know and have landed great jobs because, in part, of the work ethic exemplified by my dad. I couldn’t be more proud of all of them.
I guess that’s just it. It’s hard to tell—there’s no control group for ourselves—in this experiment of life and family, what it would’ve looked like without our dad, how we would’ve turned out, what we would’ve learned to value, what kind of women we would’ve become. I have no idea. We think we’re who we are because of who we came as. But I believe every person has influence. That we touch each others’ lives in imperceptible ways. That parents can help shape a child. That a dad’s invaluable when it comes to instilling confidence and security in a daughter. That the greatest lessons are taught by example, by the way he treated others, by the way he worked, by the way he loved. I believe his generous spirit propelled others to be more so. I think his laugh was contagious, that his enthusiasm for life lifted others.
I’m not eulogizing a perfect man. But a dad who tried. Who was the dad we needed. I love him as much now as ever. Of course I have regrets. That’s the only part that really makes me sad. I should’ve been more patient and paid him more attention. I should’ve called and written more. But I’m good with it all because I know his forgiving spirit. I love it when a picture pops out of the blue, an old one on the computer or when we’re rifling through photos for a school collage. I’m startled by how familiar he is. How he’s right back with me. Just like that. And every good thing about him comes back to me. I remember instantly how close we are, how much he loves me still. And so I’m not sad. I feel like he can see my life and my kids and my frustrations and heart pains and worries so much more clearly now. I feel soothed that I’m understood, that he can help me if I need it, that no one is more invested in a daughter than a dad. I’ve never felt closer to him than I have this year.
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