Well, we didn’t exactly bury him today; I imagine at this moment he has either been cremated or will be soon. But today was his funeral and I said my last goodbye to the most decent and wonderful man I could ever hope to know. He died last Friday morning after a stroke the night before. He was in good health, he did everything right. But I guess “shit happens” and we all have to die of something, right? He was seventy-eight years old, not a bad age to live to, I guess. The thing is, he was a very young seventy-eight…and he was My Dad. I was His Kid. And I wanted him around forever to growl at me for not getting my oil changed and to threaten to ground me when I sneaked a cigarette (I have supposedly quit…but dads always know.)
When my mom died two years ago we all thought my dad would die of starvation because she did absolutely everything for him, including pouring his corn flakes every morning. She died one week shy of their 51st wedding anniversary and I’m telling you, never was a couple more in love after fifty years than those two. I worried about him so much back then. But dang, the guy is tough, you know? He learned how to cook almost right away. Until a year ago I worked a half mile from his house, and a couple times a week he’d stop by the store in the evening and bring me dinner – something he’d made that he was proud of and wanted me to try. It was more than just that, though. He worried about me. I was the baby of the family and really, I was the only kid he had who he had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with as I was growing up. When my sisters were little he was working two jobs and going to school at night. By the time I was born he was pretty settled into his job as an engineer for Chrysler so he saw more of my formative years than theirs. That’s not to say he wasn’t involved in their lives because he was, very much so. But my dad and I had a special bond. My sisters bonded with my mom where I never did. I had my dad.
I won’t go into the sad details of the family skeletons of how two of my sisters have declared me “dead” to them since my mother’s death. Suffice it to say this made the most heartbreaking event of my life that much more difficult to bear. My father accepted me entirely and absolutely, regardless of his own beliefs. You see, I’m a lesbian. Worse than that, I’m a democrat. And yet, all he wanted was for me to be happy and secure and healthy. Preferably with a man, but hey, he watched me regain my health and I know he was breathing easily again after that. I can only imagine how awful it must have been for him last year when I was sick, before my heart surgery, how scared he must have felt. He held my hand for twenty years while I was on the merry-go-round of addiction and never took away his love…even when I didn’t deserve to be loved. And God help me, I don’t know why, but that man was proud of me all his life. Dear Lord, I am so proud of him, too…I’ll say again that there will never be a man as truly good as my dad.
He was a Marine, dammit! He enlisted right out of high school in 1946 and stayed to serve in Korea. He loved it; he was very proud of The Corps and his country. I have a picture of him in his uniform that I’ve been looking at all day, the same picture we put on top of his casket after they closed it. Wow, what a handsome man, and I’m not just saying that. Even at 78 he was handsome. He was an opinionated cuss who could hold a grudge without remembering why, but he was also generous and compassionate and intelligent. A fine musician, too. I got my passion for music from my dad at a very young age and never lost it. In fact…heh, I was forbidden from attending the Gala Funeral Shindig after the service was over and I pretty much knew that the Coven of the Evil BitchSiblings would ransack his house to take what they want without asking me if there was anything I’d like to remember him by. So after the funeral, while they were stuffing their faces with deli meat and potato salad, I let myself into my dad’s house with my key and took his banjo. That’s really all I wanted. My dad and I were the only ones who play – I heard one of the BitchSibs say something once about how nice it would look up on the wall as a decoration, and in my opinion that’s just sinful. A banjo is an instrument for creating joyful music, not something for the neighbours to comment on during cocktail parties. Fuck 'em. The banjo is now mine and I will play it and cherish it forever. He has a beautiful house full of beautiful (and useful) things that I could use, since I’ve started from scratch since getting out of rehab three years ago. But I don’t want any of it. I just wanted the banjo. My dad’s banjo.
Oh, screw that. I want my dad back. I just want my dad back. This hurts so fucking bad. I miss my dad so much.
Semper fi, Dad. I love you.
I’m sure beyond doubt that your father was incredibly, wonderfully proud of you. And you should be too. Because reading your posts evoke your dad for me and it would seem that he raised you exactly as he felt he should and that you embody his spirit.