Baritone Chuckles

Ed.

I had a chat with my dad on Saturday. Don and I were passing by and remembered just where he is: a couple of miles off the freeway, in fact.  

He has been on my mind more than usual. He would have been 83 on the 23rd. This would have been his 59th Father's Day.  I would have taken pictures of him embracing his son on his wedding day and on the day his daughters' eldests graduated from college. And I mean by that, both Jana and I.

He was an author and teacher. A historian. A lover of all things good. A character, and a person of character. Shortly after he died, I googled his name and the hits filled the first couple of pages. Now he is but a footnote.

Life sometimes feels like intermission ~ that's what ~ the time between acts when the anticipation builds; the time when you discuss and reflect on what you know, and look toward the second act to tie it all together. 

I've been collecting additional copies of my dad's books, and very attached to the idea of the tangible proof from the first phase of our relationship.  He is fading out of family conversations and I wonder when the day will come that he fades altogether.  Maybe I'm feeling especially weary and worn these days.

I don't know all that the boys remember, other than how he made them feel, and not much else counts to a kid. They talk about game days and Cousins Camps and getaways with each of them separately ... and always feeling valued, even with a dozen grandsons running around. I remember how he would sit with them and listen to all the interesting things that mattered to them, even as little ones. I remember how he would grab them in bearhugs as he walked by and how unafraid he was to tell them he loved them; I remember him calling them (Michael) (David) (Timothy) Mouse. It would be nice if these books would be about that, but we'll see.

I constantly tug at the leash. Clearly life has landed me somewhere better than before. There are very few wants. Life has blessed me with the love of a partner and friend; I am proud of my sons who are good people and likeable and hard working contributors, and that is what I wanted for them; I spend my time somewhere that reaches out to those who are suffering; and finally, finally I am in tune with selfless giving to the elders I cherish.  

But that first act with my father is never far from my thoughts. It too often draws me back in contemplation. Some friends and family have recently lost a husband, a child, a sister, and their lives are upside down even after years, as though one foot is still rooted there and one in the now, and they are unable or unwilling to tug themselves free. I understand. In eight years, the feelings of loss are undiminished.

There are those who would criticize others for not getting over a death and moving on, but I look at them and wonder how they can be the way they are.  I will never not wish for one more glimpse of those long and lazy conversation on a summer's night listening to my father's deep baritone voice chuckling through a story.  I 'yam what I 'yam.