5 Years
It was five years ago today when my father passed away. I've been taking the day slowly, contemplating, reading. I don't often feel this way around this time of year, in fact I often forget that it happened until the day is upon me and then it hits me. My father is gone. My mother is alone. And I'm hundreds of miles away from either of them.
I've been having a lot of nostalgia around my dad this time round. Not in a grieving kind of way, but in a sort of fog of reminiscence and remembrance. It really hit me last night as I was walking home from the movies by myself. I had to go to the bathroom so I ducked into the austin grill, used their facilities and then had a beer. It was the beer, the scene, the bar that reminded me of my dad.
He was a musician. Though he worked in a factory for over half of his life driving a forklift, in his heart he was always a musician. He played nights and weekends in bars around southern Ohio singing cover songs to drunk rednecks and loving every minute of it. That was his passion in life, music.
He was always there for us whenever we needed something. Especially support in some crackpot scheme that we had brewing. My father and mother both always supported us in following our dreams and always taught us to think for ourselves. If I wanted to learn how to use a wood lathe he would show me, If I wanted to repaint my bedroom he would get the supplies and we would go to work, if I wanted to learn how to do anything he would step up and dive in. He was just that kind of guy. There were no boundaries.
My father's visitation before the funeral was an enormous affair. I had no idea that he had known and been loved by so many people. So many people that he worked with, from the people who drove the forktrucks, to the people who ran the clubs and bars, to the people who went to the bars, all of them turned out in droves. There were over a thousand people to sign that memory book.
A number of people would walk up to me and tell me stories about my dad. One woman said my dad always called her "Sweet Thang" as if it were her name. And to him, it was her name. Another guy was "Mad Dog." Oh my god, the stories my dad told about him...
My dad told stories all the time. It was the most entertaining thing in the world. Mostly they were stories of pranks and jokes that he played on people throughout his life. He was a clever and tricksterish guy who liked to get one over on people, and the outcomes were always hilarious. Tricking his sister to ride a bike with no brakes down a hill and straight into the creek, feeding his brother a whole string of marshmallow ice cream cones in a row until he got all wound up and sick, etc. etc. I wish I could have written them down, or recorded them for posterity. Those stories were like the darker side of a Garrison Keillor novel. It was brilliant and twisted.
I see a lot of my fathers behaviors in myself these days. The work hard-play hard ethic, stripping off the clothes the minute you get in the door from work, plopping on the couch full of exhaustion and falling asleep there in a pair of shorts no matter the season.
I remember him fondly. He wasn't perfect, but he was the best.
Today is a good day. Let the sun set on this the shortest day and let it rise again tomorrow anew and the shining face of winter be upon us. Let us enjoy the quiet and remember the good times had with beloved friends and family. For life goes on, and the memory of love goes on longer.
I've been having a lot of nostalgia around my dad this time round. Not in a grieving kind of way, but in a sort of fog of reminiscence and remembrance. It really hit me last night as I was walking home from the movies by myself. I had to go to the bathroom so I ducked into the austin grill, used their facilities and then had a beer. It was the beer, the scene, the bar that reminded me of my dad.
He was a musician. Though he worked in a factory for over half of his life driving a forklift, in his heart he was always a musician. He played nights and weekends in bars around southern Ohio singing cover songs to drunk rednecks and loving every minute of it. That was his passion in life, music.
He was always there for us whenever we needed something. Especially support in some crackpot scheme that we had brewing. My father and mother both always supported us in following our dreams and always taught us to think for ourselves. If I wanted to learn how to use a wood lathe he would show me, If I wanted to repaint my bedroom he would get the supplies and we would go to work, if I wanted to learn how to do anything he would step up and dive in. He was just that kind of guy. There were no boundaries.
My father's visitation before the funeral was an enormous affair. I had no idea that he had known and been loved by so many people. So many people that he worked with, from the people who drove the forktrucks, to the people who ran the clubs and bars, to the people who went to the bars, all of them turned out in droves. There were over a thousand people to sign that memory book.
A number of people would walk up to me and tell me stories about my dad. One woman said my dad always called her "Sweet Thang" as if it were her name. And to him, it was her name. Another guy was "Mad Dog." Oh my god, the stories my dad told about him...
My dad told stories all the time. It was the most entertaining thing in the world. Mostly they were stories of pranks and jokes that he played on people throughout his life. He was a clever and tricksterish guy who liked to get one over on people, and the outcomes were always hilarious. Tricking his sister to ride a bike with no brakes down a hill and straight into the creek, feeding his brother a whole string of marshmallow ice cream cones in a row until he got all wound up and sick, etc. etc. I wish I could have written them down, or recorded them for posterity. Those stories were like the darker side of a Garrison Keillor novel. It was brilliant and twisted.
I see a lot of my fathers behaviors in myself these days. The work hard-play hard ethic, stripping off the clothes the minute you get in the door from work, plopping on the couch full of exhaustion and falling asleep there in a pair of shorts no matter the season.
I remember him fondly. He wasn't perfect, but he was the best.
Today is a good day. Let the sun set on this the shortest day and let it rise again tomorrow anew and the shining face of winter be upon us. Let us enjoy the quiet and remember the good times had with beloved friends and family. For life goes on, and the memory of love goes on longer.