Helped bury my pop one year ago today. My brothers and I each took a handful of dirt from his plot, sprinkled it together on his casket and said good-bye to a man like I've never known.
Don't much feel like working today. Thought writing a little about the guy might be, how they say, therapeutic.
Even when he was a kid, my pop was never a kid, not really. Grew up in the Depression, worked odd jobs from the age of nine - caddying, hauling bricks, collecting bottles, the typical grew-up-during-the-Depression stuff. A small-town boy, he spied my mom when they were 12 or so, married her eight years later and died 60 years later with a wedding ring on his hand.
After serving in the Navy during the sweep-up stages of WWII, my pop took some classes but did most of his schooling via the way of the day - on the job. First a chemist then a plant man
ager for General Tire & Rubber, the job bounced the family - four sons strong by 1968 - from Missouri to Ohio and, finally, to Texas in 1977. My brother Steve worked for my dad for 20 years and reported that every day would find my dad making his way past the white collars and into the factory to visit with his charges, to shake hands, to ask about their families, to tell a joke. To my dad, the boss and the janitor differed only in title, not in rank.
He was just like that and, in my days, like no other. See, it wasn't so much what my pop accomplished in life, and for a small-town Missouri boy with a modest education and from little means, he accomplished plenty. It was how he did it. He would stop at tables in restaurants and compliment a father on what a handsome family he had. He baked bread for my mom, whipped up breakfast for his sons and took pride in his home. Attended church every morning, volunteered for his community, donated blood by the barrel. Loved coffee in the stillness of morning, sinking an eight-foot putt, walking his dog in the evenings and telling his wife that he loved her.
Ever meet somebody who seems to have the many secrets of life figured out? Like they owned a secret recipe to contentment reserved for so few? That was him, it really was. Spiritual but not judgmental; kind and fair and gentle and honest; simple but organized; a lover of the lighter side of life, but ever-mindful of his responsibilities to family and work; humble but proud; a fiercely loyal friend, employer, husband and father. To those who knew him, to those touched by him, he was a coach, a friend, a boss, a voice of reason, a calm in the storm, a rock. To his sons, he was our pop.
Cancer took Joe in the end, first caught him a few years ago. He shrugged it off at first, then it came back with a fury a year later. But even during his last days, zapped by chemo and resigned his fate, he never lost the life in his eyes and the sweetness of his heart. He loved my mom more than anything or anybody else, and on his 80th birthday three weeks before his passing, they held hands like it was 1940 on some front porch in Monroe City (MO).
A tie or a bottle of Old Spice seemed moot on that birthday, so I wrote and framed him a letter, a list. Entitled "Things I Learned from My Dad," it went like this:
Ho-Ra-Dinka will make a baby smile…every single time.
Be patient (sometimes very, very patient).
Be your children’s biggest fan, not their staunchest critic.
Naps are good.
A three-foot putt is really a gimme.
Actions, not words, leave the biggest mark.
A bowl of ice cream is a great way to end the day.
Be a fair manager of people.
A corny joke goes a long way.
Marriage is tough but forever.
Be generous with praise.
Don’t spend it if you don’t have it.
Always compliment the chef.
Family, faith and fatherhood mean everything.
***************************
For all intents and purposes, Joe lost consciousness on my birthday last year. During the morning hours, my brother Jay asked him if he knew what day it was. He weakly reached out to me and said, "It's Jeffer's birthday." I grabbed his hand, bent over and kissed his cheek. He said, "Son, you could use a shave."
By necessity, I've found over the past year that losing somebody close brings about an evolution of the heart. During the first few days, my pop seemed so far away, so gone. You wear the pain like a musty robe. Then, slowly, the hurt turns to fondness, the memories to nostalgia.. It's like a rocket shooting far into space, this newness of death, then slowly floating back from the heavens in the form of comfort. Heck, I can now talk to him anytime I want, and his kind face is readily in my mind's eye. I think of him often - every day, really, especially when these milestones roll around - and recognize little pieces of him in me. Like the way I'm curling up my tongue now while concentrating. Or how I feel a complimentary word is never wasted. Or how I believe that, regardless of pedigree, a man's true worth is measured by what he leaves behind.
I was given the honor of writing his obituary, a bit of which included what I've written above. I figured it was my way of saying good-bye, and it was the hardest 500 words I've ever written. But now, a year later, I know it wasn't goodbye at all, not with all he left behind.
So I'll see you later, pop.
Don't much feel like working today. Thought writing a little about the guy might be, how they say, therapeutic.
Even when he was a kid, my pop was never a kid, not really. Grew up in the Depression, worked odd jobs from the age of nine - caddying, hauling bricks, collecting bottles, the typical grew-up-during-the-Depression stuff. A small-town boy, he spied my mom when they were 12 or so, married her eight years later and died 60 years later with a wedding ring on his hand.
After serving in the Navy during the sweep-up stages of WWII, my pop took some classes but did most of his schooling via the way of the day - on the job. First a chemist then a plant man
ager for General Tire & Rubber, the job bounced the family - four sons strong by 1968 - from Missouri to Ohio and, finally, to Texas in 1977. My brother Steve worked for my dad for 20 years and reported that every day would find my dad making his way past the white collars and into the factory to visit with his charges, to shake hands, to ask about their families, to tell a joke. To my dad, the boss and the janitor differed only in title, not in rank.He was just like that and, in my days, like no other. See, it wasn't so much what my pop accomplished in life, and for a small-town Missouri boy with a modest education and from little means, he accomplished plenty. It was how he did it. He would stop at tables in restaurants and compliment a father on what a handsome family he had. He baked bread for my mom, whipped up breakfast for his sons and took pride in his home. Attended church every morning, volunteered for his community, donated blood by the barrel. Loved coffee in the stillness of morning, sinking an eight-foot putt, walking his dog in the evenings and telling his wife that he loved her.
Ever meet somebody who seems to have the many secrets of life figured out? Like they owned a secret recipe to contentment reserved for so few? That was him, it really was. Spiritual but not judgmental; kind and fair and gentle and honest; simple but organized; a lover of the lighter side of life, but ever-mindful of his responsibilities to family and work; humble but proud; a fiercely loyal friend, employer, husband and father. To those who knew him, to those touched by him, he was a coach, a friend, a boss, a voice of reason, a calm in the storm, a rock. To his sons, he was our pop.
Cancer took Joe in the end, first caught him a few years ago. He shrugged it off at first, then it came back with a fury a year later. But even during his last days, zapped by chemo and resigned his fate, he never lost the life in his eyes and the sweetness of his heart. He loved my mom more than anything or anybody else, and on his 80th birthday three weeks before his passing, they held hands like it was 1940 on some front porch in Monroe City (MO).
A tie or a bottle of Old Spice seemed moot on that birthday, so I wrote and framed him a letter, a list. Entitled "Things I Learned from My Dad," it went like this:
Ho-Ra-Dinka will make a baby smile…every single time.
Be patient (sometimes very, very patient).
Be your children’s biggest fan, not their staunchest critic.
Naps are good.
A three-foot putt is really a gimme.
Actions, not words, leave the biggest mark.
A bowl of ice cream is a great way to end the day.
Be a fair manager of people.
A corny joke goes a long way.
Marriage is tough but forever.
Be generous with praise.
Don’t spend it if you don’t have it.
Always compliment the chef.
Family, faith and fatherhood mean everything.
***************************
For all intents and purposes, Joe lost consciousness on my birthday last year. During the morning hours, my brother Jay asked him if he knew what day it was. He weakly reached out to me and said, "It's Jeffer's birthday." I grabbed his hand, bent over and kissed his cheek. He said, "Son, you could use a shave."
By necessity, I've found over the past year that losing somebody close brings about an evolution of the heart. During the first few days, my pop seemed so far away, so gone. You wear the pain like a musty robe. Then, slowly, the hurt turns to fondness, the memories to nostalgia.. It's like a rocket shooting far into space, this newness of death, then slowly floating back from the heavens in the form of comfort. Heck, I can now talk to him anytime I want, and his kind face is readily in my mind's eye. I think of him often - every day, really, especially when these milestones roll around - and recognize little pieces of him in me. Like the way I'm curling up my tongue now while concentrating. Or how I feel a complimentary word is never wasted. Or how I believe that, regardless of pedigree, a man's true worth is measured by what he leaves behind.
I was given the honor of writing his obituary, a bit of which included what I've written above. I figured it was my way of saying good-bye, and it was the hardest 500 words I've ever written. But now, a year later, I know it wasn't goodbye at all, not with all he left behind.
So I'll see you later, pop.
2 comments:
Absolutely beautifully written. What a wonderful tribute.
I echo Suzanne's comment - what a wonderful tribute!
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