Dad

He entered the hospital on his seventy-fifth birthday and never came out.  On the way to the house that was now just Mom’s, I tried to pretend this was expected, and tried to sort out how Dad would want me to feel.

That part was hard.  This was the guy who didn’t talk about his service in World War II because he served in the US.  According to him, if you didn’t go Over There, you didn’t really serve. 

This was also the guy who took over a struggling business and came home every night with a cordial outlook that, despite his best efforts, was often tinged with tired. Everyone would have understood if he wanted to talk about it.  But that didn’t happen with the family.  Only with Mom, in short sentences, after the kids had gone to bed.

I decided the best thing to do in his memory was get a sack of White Castles.  Dad loved a good burger, and enjoyed a good story, and sliders seemed to fill the bill on both ends—if you love the food, you’re more inclined to laugh and talk.  In retrospect, I was just hungering for stability, and I was hoping the burgers would do that, even at 10:30 in the morning.

We all seemed a little unsure on how to proceed, although Mom took the lead on one issue.  Mr. I Didn’t Really Serve insisted he not have a flag over his coffin.  That’s why, when I walked into the funeral home, I was surprised to see one flowing across Dad’s box, a site I consider one of the most poignant in all of this mortal existence.  I greeted Mom and gently expressed my surprise at the flag, since I knew Dad’s wishes.

“Yeah” Mom said after a long pause.  “Tough.  It will give us something to talk about the next time I see him.”

So now I knew Mom would be just fine.

I didn’t inherit his abilities to fix things, so whenever the mood struck me to try, I inevitably ended up making many trips to the hardware store.  Dad’s unofficial rule was that a successful handyman effort required two trips or less, so when one of my last do-it-yourself exploits achieved that, I returned to the car, and felt Dad was smiling on me, and with me.

He showed up at other times too.  I thought about the excited way he talked with kids, a reminder he was a kid himself, who, in some ways, always seemed irked he had to grow up. Of Dad’s habit of saying “Stop me if I’ve told you this story before”, but still finishing the story once we told him the story was familiar, all with a gentle look that said, hey, throw me a bone here.

In time, remembering him was less about his physical presence, and more about what he instilled.  Kindness, gentle words, humor, an overall quiet way of going about what he needed to go about. To be fair to life, his moments of frustration and disappointment were sometimes fiery, but their source was also clear.  Dad was afraid, and didn’t know what to do with that.  Who among us can say anything different?

I write this on Dad’s 99^th birthday.  Like every day, it’s a day to be grateful for the qualities Dad gave to this existence—in my existence—and to know their timelessness is where Dad lives now, and likely always has been, something I’ll hope to better understand once I’m Over There.

Mission accomplished, Dad.

Skating

I was young but it was clear
Sometimes walking
Was an effort for him.
Yet there he was
Our small backyard
Now an outpouring of a garden hose’s winter largess
Lacing up skates
With a buffalo plaid wool interior
Gliding beyond the yard
Beyond the world
Liberating a part of soul
You’d think printing salesmen didn’t have.
I had to wonder
What else is in there.
And now
I’m still discovering.

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