remembering dad (warning: a long post)

well, i've passed a milestone. i've lost a parent. my dad died 4.2.2012 at 91 years old. he lived a long, rich & full life & died a peaceful death surrounded by family & love. we were able to talk before he died. i don't think there's much more one can ask for in this life. here's a photo of dad i've titled "jaunty dad." this was taken while dad was a young man in the navy. during that time, he was a flight instructor. the truth is we've been letting go of my father in bits & pieces over the last 4 or 5 years as his health has failed. he was still one sharp cookie, though & we had many conversations- about the economy, politics, spiritual beliefs, his childhood & just life in general. i had decided some time ago that by the time my parents died, i wouldn't know them just as parents- i wanted to have a sense of them as people- i'm glad i did that. i learned a lot. 

my dad went into hospice care about a week before he died. i went down to williamsburg the day after he went into hospice & spent a couple hours with just the two of us. on the way home & over the next couple days, i found myself doing some therapeutic writing. as it turns out, it became a eulogy that i read (with the support of my brother should i fail to maintain composure) at his service. i've included it below with some photos. thanks for allowing me to share my dad with you. 

Remembering Dad

I want to start with a quote I found by Clare Ortega, which I shared with my sister once as a part of a Christmas gift I made for her.

To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family grief and joys. We live outside the touch of time.

To some extent, this is also true of our parents. As I saw my father age & watched time performed its thievery, I was reminded of this quote. I watched Dad slowly make his way down the hall with his walker & oxygen & I thought to myself this is only part of the him- when I look at him, I don’t see only an elderly man shuffling & inching his way to get where he’s going. I see also the younger man with three young children, a Ballantine beer in his hand, going down the slide of our swing set (& I’m not talking the sturdy wood swing sets of today built to withstand earthquakes & hurricanes- no I’m talking about the hollow metal swing sets where if you swing high enough, one of the four feet lifts up with you). I see him going down that teeny slide with our neighbor Jack Craddock smiling that toothy grin the whole time. I remember & see my Dad who would hula hoop in the yard with my brother Tommy. I see & remember my Dad who was always up for a game of basketball with my brother & the neighborhood kids.  

I see & remember the man who loved his work. Just a few months ago, shortly after the Jackie Kennedy Onassis papers were released, we were talking about the assassination of JFK. My dad said he remembered coming back from lunch & seeing LBJ on TV taking the oath of office & hearing the news from Dallas for the first time & the first thing he thought of was ‘ how does /how will the assassination of a President affect the economy? the business environment? There’s a story here- I need to get on it.’ He looked at Danny & I & said isn’t that awful- the first thing I thought of was the economy & the impact on the economy. It wasn’t until later all the other feelings & thoughts came along- the sadness, the grief, the lost life of a potentially great young man.

I see & remember the man who couldn’t pack a trunk. This quirk of Dad’s created a routine for our vacation preparations. Everything to be put in the car was laid on the ground. Cigarettes were smoked, the coffee was poured & the spatial elements were carefully considered & studied. After about fifteen minutes (usually equivalent to a cup of coffee) he would come into the house, light up a cigarette, shake his head & make the announcement, unequivocally that “it wasn’t going to fit.” In the case of vacations, this proclamation began the process of eliminating objects that weren’t going on vacation. I can hear my mother now- “OH, TOM….” There were occasions the packing was for the purpose of going away to college & the declaration initiated the decision-making process-decide right now what was staying at home- this was usually declared in a loud & very no-nonsense voice that sounded quite challenging. Voices were raised, tears were shed & then Kathy or I would go pack the trunk & everything would somehow fit. I realize now, as an adult, these many years later, & that my dad didn’t just “transition” well. Change did not come easy for him.

            

                 our last family picture with the 5 of us in october 2011

I see & remember the dad who loved his kids & his wife. My mother said that if my father had his way, he would have called us every night. She said she would often have to remind that he had just spoken with us the night before. So often, I sit with clients in my office who tell me that they’ve never been told by their parents “I love you” or I’m proud of you.” That was not the case in our home. We knew we were loved & were told were loved, especially in our adult years. I remember the Dad who adored my mother. It seemed to me growing up that they generally had a good time together. There were often many friends around & our home was often a home of laughter. Especially in our adult years, we never had to wonder how Dad felt about us- he made it clear he was proud of us & that he loved us. Every day I sit in my office with people in pain about their family life & things said & unsaid- how did we get so lucky?

1981- the party after my wedding reception

I see & remember the dad who loved the ocean. Boy, did it bring out the kid in him. We vacationed in the Outer Banks every summer for years. He would get out there & body surf for hours when we were kids. He loved to go out in the waves with Tommy & Kathy; me, I wasn’t so much for the ocean water. It was one year at the Outer Banks that my father earned his mid-life family nickname- Big Daddy. It was lifted directly from ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.’ We were generally at the Outer Banks when his birthday came in August & one year we took a king-sized bed sheet, some spray paint & created our own birthday card- Lordy, lordy, ain’t it fine; Big Daddy is sixty-nine.

Our cottage that year faced the beach road & we surprised him by hanging it over the front balcony. We left it hanging there for a week. Dad said he was down on the beach one day & some one said something about it to him- “I wonder who that Big Daddy is?”  “I don’t know, “ Dad told the man, smiling from ear to ear as he recounted the story to us. You knew he just loved it & would never admit it.

One of his other favorite pastimes was fishing. I’d go out on the head boat with him sometimes or he’d get a pass & go visit the pier several times a day. I doubt my father’s fishing pole hit the water much. Mostly he liked to walk up & down the pier & talk to everyone- what’re you catching? Where are your from? How long you been coming to the Outer Banks? & on & on. He was always finding out about others, rarely talking about himself. He loved to chat to strangers & yet was a very private man. I’m not even sure he even liked fishing all that much - I think he just liked an excuse to talk to people.

I see & remember the Dad that loved being a Grandpa. He adored Grace, Caitlin & Daniel & they adored him. My parents were very involved grandparents when the kids were young. He was always ready to spend some time with his grandchildren & give them attention.

of course, the grandchildren are all adults now. my dad was so proud of them.

I see & remember the Dad & the man who was kind & compassionate. It was a very rare occasion that I ever heard my father say anything unkind or mean about anyone. He gave people the benefit of the doubt & tended to believe the best of people. On the very rare occasions when I heard my father say something unkind, I would think to myself that they must have done something pretty awful for him feel as he did. And the few times that he did say some thing unkind, it usually involved some sort of a significant moral transgression.

I remember the dad who had a vocabulary of smiles. Many have commented that he always had a smile. What many didn’t know was that he had a range of smiles. There was the sly smile- “I know I just got caught at something”- let’s face it, my dad was a good guy- but he wasn’t a saint! There was the “I’m doing something goofy” smile. There was the authentic sincere open smile- “I’m happy to be here & happy to see you” smile. The “you’re in big trouble”smile. The “I’m proud of you smile.” He did always have a smile. A big toothy smile.

As I said earlier, his nickname in the family was Big Daddy. Shortly after he entered hospice, I was sitting with just him & talking with him about our family & some memories. I said that I would miss my Big Daddy- he patted his belly & smiled. Not so much Big Daddy anymore, he whispered. You’ll always be Big Daddy to me, I said. What I thought & didn’t say was you will always be big to me. You’ll always be someone I look up to when it comes to tough decisions. You’ll always be someone I think about when I’m faced with tough moral or ethical choices. You’ll always be the man who was willing to listen to the Grateful Dead so that you could teach me about Stephan Grapelli & Django Reinhardt & Ella Fitzgerald. You’ll always be the man who gave me my love of literature & words & poetry & helped teach me how to make the words dance off the page & come alive & sing.

I think of the times lately that I’ve been out with my father, when we’ve been standing in line or I’ve taken him to a doctor’s appointment or we’ve run an errand & I see others looking at him, annoyed or pitying. They see a frail old man bent over a walker with his oxygen, moving at a snail’s pace, holding them up. I want to stop them & walk up to them & say “You’re standing there irritated & annoyed. You think you’re seeing a frail old man in the twilight of his life. Stop a moment & really really look. That is my father. You are looking at Big Daddy.”
                                                                          April 9, 2012

I miss you, Big Daddy.