An Homage to Dad

A week ago today, my mother and I passed a tender milestone together: 9 years since the death of my father.

Whenever I talk about my father's death, I always say the same thing--almost like I'm reading from a script. It goes something like this:

"What does your father do?"
"My father passed away in 2001."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"I really can't complain. He lived a good long life. 80 years is nothing to sneeze at."

And then I smile.

It's true. Eighty years is a pretty damned good run. My Daddy always said jokingly that we were only promised three score and ten; he got ten extra, either for good behavior, or as punishment. Maybe a little bit of both.

My father had lived 55 years before I had even formed as a twinkle in his eye. He worked as a math teacher, a principal, a WWII soldier, a late-night deejay, a speechwriter, a consultant, a landlord, and a bowling pin attendant (not in that order, or course)--all before I was born. Those, by the way, are just the jobs that I am aware of. There are, no doubt, thousands of stories and experiences that he forgot before I was even around to hear about them...and thousands of his stories I forgot before I understood how much I would treasure them in his absence.

In the 24 years that I knew him, he was stern, but generous-spirited. He could be very intimidating, but had a fantastic sense of humor. He was a great host, and could mix a deadly drink. He loved to be in control, and was usually pretty good at running things. He rarely admitted being wrong...about anything, ever. He had a well-worn wisdom that came primarily from life experience. He sought always and above all things to be a productive individual. He was very demanding of those he cared about, and was intolerant of indecision or lack of direction.

He was, as my mother would say, a piece of work.

My father and I spent most of my teenage years at each other's throats. He thought I was spoiled and entitled (which I probably was), and I thought he was out of touch and unreasonably strict (which he definitely was). We fought often, but rarely went to bed angry. With the mediation of my persistent and patient mother, we always managed to find common ground and remember that we loved each other.

Just last night, I was talking about my father with a patron of the opera here in Washington, DC. I was remembering going to the tailor with my father as a young girl (Dad was, by all accounts, something of a clothes horse), and watching him pick out fabric for his suits. He was partial to mohair blends, I remember. In the telling of the story, my senses came along for the ride; suddenly, I inhaled the dry cedar of his closet, recalled the deep cordovan of his lace-up Johnston and Murphy shoes. I could hear the creak of his armoire, and smell his Bay Rhum cologne.

It's amazing how vivid my memories can be, after so many years. It was like I went to 1985 for a visit.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that I still talk to my father. It seems only natural, since I can still hear him in my head! Hardly a day passes when I don't quote my father in conversation, or think of something he once said. When I'm in places that I heard him talk about, or even places that he never saw but know he would have enjoyed, I often send him mental postcards: "Having great fun, wish you were here." He's opinionated even in death; when I'm dating someone that my father would like, he always whispers a little approving word--and he's not afraid to tell me when he's not too keen on someone, either. His voice often comes to me when I'm faced with a tough decision or a situation which requires problem solving or strategic thinking. Most of the time, I still take his advice.

In truth, I may not remember my father exactly as he was, anymore. I'm hardly objective, after these nine years; in death, he's become superhuman. The things I admired about him I now hold sacred, and the things about him that drove me crazy while he was alive have become endearing. The implacable distance that death offers has given me a more generous perspective, rounded out the jagged corners of my memories, and allowed me a new kind of relationship with my father.

For one, I actually can win a fight now and then.

Love you, Dad.