4 Years Later… 8 Things I Miss About My Father

Hard to believe, almost four years have passed since Dad died. Four winters, springs, summers, and falls have come and gone. He was a good father and we were close. I thought his death would become easier with time, but instead it gets harder. Numbness eventually turned to grief, but each time I think of him the sadness goes deeper, the loss more real. Here are eight things I miss about him…

His humor – My dad loved to laugh. And we shared the same warped sense of comedy. A few times something cracked us up, but in a quiet, public place (in the middle of a talk, a church service, etc.) and our feeble attempts to keep in the chuckles only made it worse. I couldn’t look at him, knowing if I did, I’d burst out laughing. It was a special communication we had — this shared view of the silly things in life — and I miss that.

His devotion –As kids, my sister Jane, brother Eric, and I would squeal in delight when my dad snuck up behind my mom, Marilyn, and tickled her. We’d watch our parents dance at weddings or parties, snuggled close, always with content smiles. He commuted over ninety minutes each way to his job, but never complained. Looking back, we never had to worry about food on the table or a roof over our head or if our father loved our mother.

His love of the little things – Dad was a devoted Yankees fan and watched every game. He loved ripe, red summer tomatoes and ate them like apples, salting each bite. He loved mint jelly with lamb, late summer corn, and apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese on the side. If we went to the town carnival, he always had a bag of popcorn. “This is good living,” he liked to say.

His playfulness – My father loved swimming with us in the summers. He’d pick us up and throw us in the water and we’d beg for more. In the winters, we’d toboggan down the hills of our local middle school, all laughing and screaming. Fall meant leaf raking and Dad wasn’t above letting us all run and jump into a pile of neatly assembled foliage. Spring meant neighborhood softball games and he always loved pitching.

His kindnesses – On my wedding day, Dad and I stood ready to enter the church. We looked at each other. He gave a wink. “You ready?” he asked. I nodded. I knew he was as nervous as me. When going back to his seat after giving me away, I heard he took extra care not to step on my gown. Later at the reception, he said to me, “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” He was tender and generous with words.

His humanity – My father became more vulnerable in his later years, easy to tear-up if something moved him. I once asked about his stint in the navy during the Korean War. He became so emotional he couldn’t talk. Some memories he buried deep. His Swedish temper would flare sometimes, but always blew over. He was never cruel or overbearing.

His grandfatherly ways – There’s a picture of my father with his first grandson, newborn Patrick, sitting on his lap against his legs. He’s holding Patrick’s little hands and the look on my father is pure wonder and joy. Later, Patrick threw up on him, but in typical fashion, Dad grabbed a cloth, wiped himself off and laughed. I told him he was officially in the “Grandpa club,” a place he took with great pride. Two grandsons followed.

His courage – In his later years, Dad faced Parkinson’s disease with dignity and acceptance. Eventually he could barely move or eat. He missed our last Christmas because he was in the hospital. Randy and our two boys visited him the next day. My father wanted to know everything, asking in a weak, raspy voice: “Did you open your presents after dinner? Did you eat beef and mashed potatoes? Did you have champagne?” I realized then how much these small family rituals meant to him. “Yes,” we answered to everything. He closed his eyes and nodded.

Seven month later, he died in hospice, at 3:00 a.m. My mom stood by his side. They’d been married sixty years.

Another summer’s ahead and I think of my dad. His birthday’s in July and he always loved those carefree, sunny months. Whenever I see a Yankees cap or a ripe, red tomato, or father and daughter sharing a laugh, I think of him.

No doubt, he’d smile. “This is good living,” he’d say.

 

 

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