A tardy letter

Dear Dad:

I know this is a bit late but the thoughts come when they come. What can I say?

I stopped by to see you and Mom the other day. Not much had changed as you know, but I always like to touch the stone when I’m in the area.  I drove by the old house on Belvale and it was pretty much the same, as well. It’s odd to think about how tight that little group of neighbors was.

 I remembered you and Uncle Bill helping the Unlands put in the side extension to their driveway. And the time you and Jack and the guy whose name I can’t recall ran down the street to pull Greg’s brother and his car out of the garage and put out the fire before it could spread to the house. It was the second time in my life I’d witnessed as you rescued someone from a fire.

I drove by the high school and recalled your pride when I played drums with the stage band at the basketball games. I always felt your disappointment that I wasn’t an athlete, so knowing that I’d done something that made you proud was a big deal to me in those days.

I drove down 17 past the airport and when I went past Coleman, I was reminded of the years you spent working a job that you grew to loath in order to provide for your family. I hope you’d be cheered by my dedication to my own work and pleased that I’ve found a job I love. And I hope and believe you’d be gratified that I know how much you contributed to my own work ethic.

You likely know we buried Dave last week. I hope you also know of the rapprochement between him and his kids in the last years. At the end, he was a Dad and we’ll leave it at that.  But family funerals – there’ve been too many in recent years - always make me reminiscent.

I thought about our childhood. We never had much money but we always had the things we needed. You took pride in that, as well you should. You were first and foremost a family man.

Little things seem to form your legend in my mind. Like the time Pat and I got the “working fire truck” from Santa and you spent the whole weekend with us setting cardboard box buildings on fire and then putting them out, only to light them again.

I loved when you would lean back on your floor cushion and take on all your kids at once in a wrestle and tickle match that always sent me on an emergency trip to the restroom from laughing too hard.

You didn’t always approve of my choices and sometimes tsked at my failures but you always rejoiced in my triumphs.  I’m sorry that in demanding your approval, I sometimes overlooked your love.

I remember your terror when I stayed with you after Mom passed and the dawning knowledge of how much you’d relied on each other all those years.

I recalled sitting with you recording the stories that would become your eulogy for Uncle Bud and how your soul tore at the thought that your brother would never trade outrageous golf lies with you again.

And the time you and Mr. Russell tortured door-to-door salesmen by calling each other so the second one they contacted could pull the psychic act and pretend to “read” their sales pitch before they could begin.

I can picture you doing the twist on the Sullivan’s patio spread with corn meal. It’s truly an awful picture. No offense. And speaking of god-awful, I’ve apparently inherited your fashion sense. That one’s best left alone.

Picnics at the lake (I still have Mom’s big yellow potato salad bowl), drives on Sunday evenings, road trips to L.A. and Virginia, all stand out for me as signature events of my upbringing. My love of road trips is another welcome inheritance from you.

We had the same problems that seem to plague so many fathers and sons but I always knew you were there for me. I have regrets about facets of our relationship that I’ve come to understand don’t really matter. I’m no more the perfect Dad than you were but through my own journey, I’ve come to know how hard you tried.

You did a good job with the resources at hand. And your give-a-shit factor was high. What more could a son have asked?