I wrote this for my father on his funeral day. I remember I went to bed that night hoping to get up early and jot down some notes to share at his funeral. I found that sleep was impossible so I went down stairs and pounded the keys. Here is what I came up with.
His death is something that in one way or another I've been preparing for my whole life. Why... Well he's been telling me about it since I was old enough to understand. My Dad was hellbent on the final chapter of life. He did all he could do to avoid it but it haunted him, and in some way bringing me along in that journey he wanted me to know to prepare. I don't know if that is why I'm stuck in this moment. My father has been my life's greatest muse. I've always strived to meet his definition of a man. I now know he did everything he could to meet that expectation as well. I miss you Dad. I hope you are finally at peace. I'll write soon.
10/5/2019
Some Words About Dad
I don’t remember the toddler years —which is when we lived together for the first time… My sister claims to remember everything. I can lie back and close my eyes and try to - but to no avail. There are images though. Perhaps bolstered by some old pictures in the dusty albums on my desk. Yet they feel familiar. The moments have resonance for me because my dad was my hero as a kid. I remember making up stories about him. Not because I wasn’t happy with the life he was living. No, not at all. It was because I didn’t know. I didn’t know what my father did with his time in the Navy. I would tell my friends that he was a fighter-pilot or a solider. I would compare him to the movie stars in Top Gun. I was proud of him and my made up stories. He was, sadly, a mystery to me as a young kid. My habit of fictionalizing my father to the point of immortality was borne out of love and admiration for a relationship that was lacking due to circumstances beyond my control. To me he was this statuesque, cocksure, symbol of masculinity. I wanted to be like him and I barely knew him.
I remember one of my most vivid memories as a boy my oldest son’s age, at a Boy Scout Father & Son camping trip where we participated in obstacle courses and competitions. I remember I hurt my ankle and it was suggested that I sit out the rest of the activities. Dad asked me what I wanted to do while my ankle had doubled in size—- There was no way in hell I was going to let him down. I had built this man up to be bulletproof. This desire to find his approval would carry over well into high school, college, and early adult years.
I later found myself wanting to prove that I was my own man. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was his son. My voice started to sound more like his. My smile was etched from the very same hammer and chisel. We both loved movies on a Sunday afternoon, and then dinner where we discussed the finer plot points. We both liked a good breakfast. We were both fond of music that told a story. There was no avoiding this.
In my thirties, we grew more distant. My family had grown. We moved in different directions miles apart. My career had demanded more of me. That relationship that had defined my yearning for so long, and had haunted me my entire childhood was getting away from me.
Because as I grew older I realized that I had fictionalized so much of who my father was that as an adult we were very different people and we didn’t see eye to eye on many things. Neither of us were good at expressing this unspoken distance between us.
I was asked the other day if I regretted moving him down here to North Carolina with me. I had to think about how I wanted to answer that. Because the answer was easy. It’s no, I didn’t. The decision to move him down was one that I had to run the numbers, and consider the emotional cost on my family and my wife. When my wife Jennifer said yes, without pause or reservation, I knew that it was the right thing. If that is what he wanted to do.
You see, fathers and sons have a bond that is inextricable. Even when things aren’t as we like or want, that desire to be the man that helped raise the boy is still there. Through the years it evolves, and becomes something else. But deep down, it’s still that want to be as good or better than your father.
My dad, Leonard, was a good man. A man that loved deeply even though he struggled to articulate it. He was a meticulous man that believed in paying his debts. He was a romantic at heart. He fictionalized his relationships and visualized versions of those that were sometimes hard to live up to his account. He was nostalgic and warmly viewed the good ole days when things were simpler and people were more authentic. He looked out for his friends and loved ones, and would help them when they needed his help. He loved his kids. He was there for us and always concerned himself with our decisions good or bad, and whether we wanted him to or not. He adored and doted on his grandkids. I asked him near the end if he felt loved. He said he did. He had many regrets in his life, and as old age has a way of sobering our views and tempering our angst, he shared some of those with us. He found God near the end, and accepted Christ in his life. He told me he loved me often. He laughed with his grandkids. He got to know his daughter in-law. He fought until his body said no more.
My father loved his country, and was concerned about its trajectory for some time. He fought for our country and served proudly. It is fitting today that he gets a heroes burial. Dad, you are my hero in many many ways. We found our way back to each other. Rest Peacefully, and know that you are loved. I will be back to visit often.
My Dad and I haven’t always had the easiest relationship. In fact, at times it was damn right difficult. Throughout all of it we both desired to have a better one. Love was never in question. It was a strained dynamic that started from the beginning. I’ve tried to find the words to describe our relationship. I always landed somewhere around “complex”. My Dad was a rolling stone from day one I’ve heard. He never really settled down. The Navy facilitated a life of adventure, duty, and purpose that kept him a way from me and my sister.
I don’t remember the toddler years —which is when we lived together for the first time… My sister claims to remember everything. I can lie back and close my eyes and try to - but to no avail. There are images though. Perhaps bolstered by some old pictures in the dusty albums on my desk. Yet they feel familiar. The moments have resonance for me because my dad was my hero as a kid. I remember making up stories about him. Not because I wasn’t happy with the life he was living. No, not at all. It was because I didn’t know. I didn’t know what my father did with his time in the Navy. I would tell my friends that he was a fighter-pilot or a solider. I would compare him to the movie stars in Top Gun. I was proud of him and my made up stories. He was, sadly, a mystery to me as a young kid. My habit of fictionalizing my father to the point of immortality was borne out of love and admiration for a relationship that was lacking due to circumstances beyond my control. To me he was this statuesque, cocksure, symbol of masculinity. I wanted to be like him and I barely knew him.
I remember one of my most vivid memories as a boy my oldest son’s age, at a Boy Scout Father & Son camping trip where we participated in obstacle courses and competitions. I remember I hurt my ankle and it was suggested that I sit out the rest of the activities. Dad asked me what I wanted to do while my ankle had doubled in size—- There was no way in hell I was going to let him down. I had built this man up to be bulletproof. This desire to find his approval would carry over well into high school, college, and early adult years.
I later found myself wanting to prove that I was my own man. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was his son. My voice started to sound more like his. My smile was etched from the very same hammer and chisel. We both loved movies on a Sunday afternoon, and then dinner where we discussed the finer plot points. We both liked a good breakfast. We were both fond of music that told a story. There was no avoiding this.
In my thirties, we grew more distant. My family had grown. We moved in different directions miles apart. My career had demanded more of me. That relationship that had defined my yearning for so long, and had haunted me my entire childhood was getting away from me.
Because as I grew older I realized that I had fictionalized so much of who my father was that as an adult we were very different people and we didn’t see eye to eye on many things. Neither of us were good at expressing this unspoken distance between us.
I was asked the other day if I regretted moving him down here to North Carolina with me. I had to think about how I wanted to answer that. Because the answer was easy. It’s no, I didn’t. The decision to move him down was one that I had to run the numbers, and consider the emotional cost on my family and my wife. When my wife Jennifer said yes, without pause or reservation, I knew that it was the right thing. If that is what he wanted to do.
You see, fathers and sons have a bond that is inextricable. Even when things aren’t as we like or want, that desire to be the man that helped raise the boy is still there. Through the years it evolves, and becomes something else. But deep down, it’s still that want to be as good or better than your father.
My dad, Leonard, was a good man. A man that loved deeply even though he struggled to articulate it. He was a meticulous man that believed in paying his debts. He was a romantic at heart. He fictionalized his relationships and visualized versions of those that were sometimes hard to live up to his account. He was nostalgic and warmly viewed the good ole days when things were simpler and people were more authentic. He looked out for his friends and loved ones, and would help them when they needed his help. He loved his kids. He was there for us and always concerned himself with our decisions good or bad, and whether we wanted him to or not. He adored and doted on his grandkids. I asked him near the end if he felt loved. He said he did. He had many regrets in his life, and as old age has a way of sobering our views and tempering our angst, he shared some of those with us. He found God near the end, and accepted Christ in his life. He told me he loved me often. He laughed with his grandkids. He got to know his daughter in-law. He fought until his body said no more.
My father loved his country, and was concerned about its trajectory for some time. He fought for our country and served proudly. It is fitting today that he gets a heroes burial. Dad, you are my hero in many many ways. We found our way back to each other. Rest Peacefully, and know that you are loved. I will be back to visit often.
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