I don’t know if it’s because my birthday is approaching, or if it’s the cold weather; I’m sure if there is any catalyst as to why I’m feeling the way I am. Tammy did a Scrapbook Layout of a picture of my father. It was taken of him when he was about 6 or 7. He is dressed up as a cowboy and looking as cool as a little tot can at that age dressed up as his favorite hero. You see, my father grew up in an age when Cowboys and Indians was cool, before political correctness sprung up its ugly little head. My grandmother has told me stories, many stories about him, and yesterday, after a phone call I received, my memories have been flooding back. Maybe that was the catalyst.
My father died of a heart attack on his 50th birthday. He was having dinner with some friends of his, and he had just gotten back from Spain. He was working for the US government over there, and had taken leave due to his health. He died when I was 17. Thing is, my grandparents and I weren’t on speaking terms; and my mother had even less communication with them, so I did not find out about his death for almost a year.
Yeah, let that sink in.
My father was not the most perfect man, and he wasn’t involved in my life much after my parents split up when I was in 4th grade. When he did come and see me, he tried to fit all the missed time into those small weekends. Worse, those small weekends came only about 3 times a year.
What I do remember about my father was that he was kind. He always had a joke. He would do what he could to help his friends or even strangers out. He rarely cussed, rarely drank, or to be more precise, rarely drank at the house. No six-packs in the fridge. When I needed something, he would always try to get it; when I wanted something, he would try even harder to make it happen.
My father was a mortician in civilian life and a medical examiner in government life. One time he came to my school for show and tell about what our parents do for a living. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember being the cool kid for the day for having an mortician as a father…I think the only thing that could have topped that was having a carny as a dad.
He liked to play practical jokes. I remember one story about having an intern at the funeral home and him telling the intern to drive the hearse back to another office. It was late at night, and the young student took the caddy. At the stop light, a hand reached out from behind him and hooked him on the shoulder. The boy screamed, jumped out of the car, and ran. Problem was, the hearse was an automatic, so it started to move forward. With my dad stuck in the back, trying to control the wheel.
Another time, when he and my mother moved to a new town and new job, they were invited by my dad’s new boss to come out to a cocktail party (Back in the 60′s when cocktail parties were all the rage) as a meet-up for the local scene. My dad was all spiffied up with his dark hair all slicked and dress blue suit. Later that night, he got a page and needed to leave, but made sure to tell his host that his twin brother would be coming out to pick up my mother. My father went home, took off the toupee, changed clothes and came back to the party. Everyone bought into it, but they started freaking abit when my dad’s “brother” started getting too friendly with my mother. Later on, the joke came out, and everyone laughed.
The point is, my father enjoyed life. He didn’t have time for heartbreaks or let-downs. He would do what he could to make things better. He was a fixer. He also was very adamant about appearances.
One time, when we lived on Guam, we had an island quake. Now, when that happens, everyone runs out of the houses. Not my father. No, he went in, put pants on and then ran out. He was the only one with pants…everyone else on base housing was in their skivvies or boxers.
I know that I don’t really know my father that well, but the memories I have are ALL that I have, so I will just believe what I remember. I know he was a romantic, a dreamer.
I have tried, starting this last year and moving forward, to try to be like him. To believe and have hope that things will alway work out, even when it is very dark. To have faith. To believe in love, no matter what the cost is to believe in it.
I end this blog with a quote from a writer I admire:
“Do not keep the alabaster boxes of your love and tenderness sealed up until your friends are dead. Fill their lives with sweetness. Speak approving, cheering words while their ears can hear them and while their hearts can be thrilled by them.” -Henry Ward Beecher
