Another Fathers Day. This month my
father would have been 90 years old. And it just doesn't seem
possible that he's been gone 20 years in July. It seems like only
yesterday I was driving back and forth from Atlanta nearly every
weekend while he was in the hospital. And with every trip, he would
tell me to stay home. He was gravely ill and yet worried about me
traveling.
And why is it that time turns our
memories to faded photographs: still shots of our lives? What was an
ongoing linear life is now a flash of a picture in the back of the
mind. I can see his facial expression when he would laugh. I can
remember him toiling over sales figures. I try to remember
everything he ever said to me.
And with each year that marches on, a
little more of the memory escapes.
He was a good man. I don't use
that phrase a lot. I used it the other day to describe a man with
whom I went to high school. And it stopped me in my tracks. That
phrase encompassed everything that was my father: hard-working,
patriotic, honest. His integrity and his name were cherished by him
more than all the gold in the world. I watched him leave a job once
because they were requiring he “fudge” the numbers and over-sell
his customers. He refused to compromise on his integrity. He
refused to be short-sighted for expediency's sake. And it took
several months for him to obtain employment. He struggled with his
ability to provide for us. Yet, that was a time I remember keenly
being so proud of him. I respected him.
He wasn't demonstrative. He showed his
love through his character and by providing for us all. He wasn't a
rich man – monetarily. But he was rich in spirit. That is
something no amount of money can buy. He believed in helping others.
Instead of detailing his own sales car, he paid a disabled Vietnam
vet to do it. He wanted to support him and that was a way he could
do it and maintain the man's dignity. He knew the value of hard
work and a job well-done.
He was a part of the greatest
generation. He volunteered and served both in WWII and Korea.
Dad was a submariner. How he lived on that tiny diesel sub, I'll
never understand. When we moved to Alabama, he took me through the
USS Drum here. I couldn't imagine him fitting inside that small
thing. But he did. It was one of only a couple of times he
discussed his service. I felt so honored he would bring me through
there, explaining to me all of the do-dads and gadgets. It was one
of my favorite times with him.
I miss his counsel. He rarely simply
offered his opinion. He didn't waste words. But when asked, he
shared wisdom born of a difficult life. He always knew just what
needed to be said. He led by example. He had high expectations.
Were I to be given one wish, it would be for another day with him. I
still have so many questions that only he can answer. I would tell
him I love him one more time. I would let him know how deeply he
affected me.
And when I feel as though I've failed
him, I remember him telling me to try again. Engage my brain. I
hope that in my short life, I live up to the standard he set. I hope
that when I pass through the veil from this life to the next, he is
there to greet me and tell me I've done well.
So, Happy Fathers Day, daddy. You are
missed more than you will ever know.
