All of us have had one. We either have one now, or we had one in the past. We may have known them quite well, not at all, or somewhere in-between. They might have nurtured us, abandoned us, or just flittered in and out of our lives. We may have loved them, hated them, feared them, revered them, or perhaps even become one of them. I’m speaking, of course, of dads.
I consider myself pretty fortunate when it comes to the dad department. Mine was there when I was born, there when I was a youngster, there when I was struggling to become an adult, and there when I finally realized that I really didn’t know as much as he did after all.
I have many, many memories of my dad. The earliest I can conjure is of my sister and I sitting on dad’s lap, a little bit before bedtime, in his favorite overstuffed chair in the living room of our home. I was 4, maybe 5. My sister was 2, maybe 3. We were dressed in our pajamas, and dad was reading to us. What he was reading I don’t recall, but that doesn’t matter. We were laughing, we were happy, and we were having time with dad. We did that kind of thing a lot, spending time together.
Growing up with my dad meant there was time together getting haircuts, and time together doing chores. There was time together having meals, and then time together doing homework. Time together working in his shop, and time together working on the cars. Time together for fishing, for camping, for football and basketball. Golf? Not so much.
And there was time spent together to talk.
Over the years there were many father-son talks. They were conversations about life, about decency, about dignity and about respect. He spoke to me about character, and how important it was for others to be able to trust your word. Most importantly, he spoke to me of the necessity to see and to honor the dignity of all others.
Some of these lessons I heeded better than others. But I remember them all because he lived them all.
There were times when we disagreed, or perhaps I should say I disagreed. But reconciliation was always to be found.
And there were times, a very few times when I felt hurt or disillusioned because of a word he said or a thing done. But they languish in the shadows of the fullness and joy of our two lives spent together.
I have always been proud of my dad, and didn’t tell him nearly enough that I loved him. My dad was proud of me. And although the words rarely passed his lips, he loved me too.
It’s been about a year now since dad lost his smile, his voice, his breath, his life. We spent that time together too.
He cried during one of our last moments, because he had not been able to get me a birthday present. Days before that, he had apologized over and over because I had to spend time making repairs to the house for mom. He was so sad, and so frustrated that he could no longer do these things himself.
All of his life, my dad had taken care of himself and others. But no more. His once athletic body had become weak and frail. Dad became dependent on others for help with his every need. And so as he once did for me, it became mine to do for him.
In the beginning of my life he was there for me. At the end of his life I was there for him. Dad died one year ago this month at the age of 96. Somewhere along the way we learned the most important lesson of all, that we would always be there for each other. Together.
Thanks Dad.
