My father died yesterday. Today is the first day I have ever
been alive without my dad also breathing in air somewhere. It’s been a long
time since my dad and I lived in the same house, but this is different..
He died suddenly, his body worn out from 76 years of use.
Men of my dad’s generation, even accountants and corporate executives like him,
used their bodies differently than my generation, and they really use them differently than
my daughter’s generation.
In my dad’s day smoking was a rite of maturity to becoming a
man. My dad goes into the service and starts to smoke. That’s what you did. My
dad’s generation didn’t know that smoking was supposed to kill you. They never
thought about smoking in terms of health, smoking was all about culture and
lifestyle, sort of like what kind of music you liked or car you drove. What you
smoked told people what kind of man you were—or wanted to be.
Then there was the food. My dad’s parents lived through the
depression. (My dad was born in the Great Depression. By the time he was conscious of it, it was
over and the war was on instead.) So my dad grew up eating anything that had
calories in it, and although there were a few bromides about food and health
(My grandma’s favorite one: “Eat like a king at breakfast, eat like a prince at
lunch, and a pauper at dinner”) no one though too much about eating food
primarily made out of chemicals rather than, say, food. My dad’s idea of a
green vegetable was a dill pickle, and for a serving of fruit he would have an
orange gummy bear. He knew what food was, but no one told him to eat that
rather than whatever was being sold as the newest and best food alternative.
No generation made “cocktail hour” as iconic as my parent’s
generation. You watch any movie set in the 1960s or 70s, and the cocktail is
always a major actor in the story. That’s what they did. Business happened over
cocktails—they invented “happy hours” for the “sad”, I guess, working class. I
remember my dad’s advice upon my graduation from college (I was the first
person in his family to ever do so. That I went on to earn two masters and a
doctorate is proof that I am into “overkill.”). His advice: “Remember guys just
want to drink beer, watch TV, and f*** their wives.” My dad was not a complicated man.
Anyhow, it’s no surprise my dad’s body wore out after 76
years of living. And my dad did not want his living to be prolonged
artificially. He always took the most radical treatments for his ailments as he
lived by the adage that “quality was more important than quantity.” And from my
perspective he seemed to have achieved that goal. He had a quality life. As my mom said, "It was a hell of a ride." The drugs he took, like the
smoking and drinking and food, all had a corrosive effect on his longevity, but
they were the stimulants of his humor and his energy to make friends. His humor
and his friends were the fabric of his joi
de vivre.
I am sure that as the years go by, I will discover more and
more about how I am my dad’s son. But here are a few things I already have realized
I learned from him:
a)
You can never be too organized.
b)
Your socks should always match your pants.
(Granted, he may have learned this from my mom, but I saw it on him.) Of
course, 8 months out of the year I don’t wear socks, as they clash with my
Birkenstocks.
c)
Never tell the truth when you can tell a joke.
As a preacher this is the enduring legacy of my dad. Truth is usually quite
boring—which is why we miss it most of the time. Somehow my dad always knew the
truth, but he was too disinterested in it to share. I hear myself saying in
every sermon something like—we know what we’re supposed to do, it’s not that
hard or difficult, but that’s boring. Here’s a story about… (The truth is God
loves you, but do you really want to hear one line every week? How God loves
you THIS WEEK—now, that’s a sermon.)
d)
Never forget to say “I love you.” I noticed when
I moved away from my home 29 years ago that my dad started telling me he loved
me more. I don’t remember him saying it much the first 22 years of my life, but
when I moved down to Austin, TX he said it more and more. And he kept saying
it. My dad had a stroke, and my mom put the phone by him to talk as best he
could the other day. He told me he loved me and to take care. Those were the last words he ever said to
me. That’s enough for me. After 51 years
I know it was the truth.
He was the best dad I could have ever asked for, and I will
miss him every day until I too, at the last, tell my daughters I love them, and
to take care.
May your tables be full and your conversations be true.
and others who didn't get as famous but were important to my life.)