Homage to my father

My dad. To know him is to not understand him for a while. He tends to get distracted mid-sentence and shift to something else, usually related, although sometimes not. Unless you've been listening for a few decades it can be confusing. Even if you have been listening for a few decades it can be confusing, as if he shifted language a few times. Your brain has to be light on its feet to follow along. You keep Dad's landscape in your head while he's talking and move around with him trying to follow along with the effortless jumps he makes. It doesn't help that he, like me, is bad with names. There might be three "Jiggers" in a sentence, like, "I talked to ah, Jigger, about replacing the ah, jigger, oh, you know, I need that guy, ah, Jigger, to meet me after my appointment over at ....Linda? Did you call to reschedule the furnace guy? What's his name? Jigger?"

My dad is shy, although you'd never know it to meet him. Like many inherently shy people, he is relentlessly socially gracious, grateful that you made the first move. If you speak to him you will be rewarded by hours of warm, interested conversation. Once you've met him you have a friend for life. He might not remember your name or where you're from but he'll know about your family, job, struggles, successes, and probably your surgeries. And you'll know a lot about him, although you might not know how to put it all together until you've met a member of the family who can piece together the patchwork of details for you.

My dad is relentless in general. Slowed a bit now by a multitude of medical problems, his mind still moves non-stop. When my siblings and I were younger he moved non-stop. Cleaning, writing, gardening, talking, helping with homework (not math), cooking, and making lesson plans for the next day, this retired teacher moved through life at the speed of sound, leaving clean windows, vacuumed floors, loved children, home-grown tomatoes, and roasted chickens in his wake. Now he calls at random times to say how much he loves you and your children, or to ask about this or that. He stops by with candy for his beloved grandchildren who fly to his pockets to see what BopBop has wrought. He kisses, tickles, and loves his grandchildren, who he says have made him fall in love with his own children all over again.

He still works full-time as a clergyman. His faith and unshaken belief in God and people is a shiny, hammered, vibrant, living thing which enlivens his every move. Love and belief in the goodness of one and all flow from my dad like heat radiates from the sun. Goodwill bubbles over this charming, eccentric man.

When my father has been sick, almost as sick as I've ever seen almost anybody, he is still gracious. He thanks nurses for poking his finger for the 100th time. He smiles despite horrible pain. He calls me from the hospital to tell me to bring things for the staff. Sweat pouring from his brow from a first walk after having his chest ripped open, gasping for breath, he doesn't say, "I can't do it" to a therapist, he says, "I wonder if perhaps you'd be kind enough to help me back to my chair." He makes his daughter clean up the floor after an accident so he doesn't have to bother an aide, then he gives his daughter some money to go by a candy reward for helping him. He hates to call his doctors after hours because he knows they have families, like his daughter. He doesn't want to be a bother. He calls his physician daughter in emergencies to be sure he won't be bothering his physician by calling, say for a heart rate of 180 a month after open heart surgery. I sigh and head for the hospital knowing what will be coming, stopping for a good decaf coffee for Dad, heading off the request I know will be coming.

My father loves his family and his family loves him back. It's a big noisy, happy, wet, strong, loud, messy, palpable love. It grows and blossoms in a big organic kind of way. My mother's love is more reserved and tidy, but also unshakable, no less steely. You can't shake either. I grew up enveloped in a family which moved often and was demanding it its membership requirements. We all cooked, did laundry, saved money for vacations, cleaned, and participated fully in the life of our little experiment (thanks, JIB). I might have questioned the decisions at the time, struggling against perceived unfairness as I separated slowly from the fold. That my parents can sit back now with a drink and watch me and my husband struggle with my own children and their long walk towards independence is a source of enormous pleasure, I think.

To my father I offer up my thanks. Thanks for making me learn to roast a chicken. Thanks for giving me the "swimming like a shark" gene. Thank you for making me believe I could do anything. Thanks for teaching me to worry about people in the middle of the night. Thanks for teaching me to dig in and participate, to love my children absolutely, unconditionally, and relentlessly. Thanks for teaching me to try to love everybody like family, but to always make family first. Thanks for the hot dogs, the pancakes, English muffins, ham & biscuit casserole, mashed potatoes, and sandwich spread. Thanks for the walks, the hikes in the woods, the games of "kick the stick". Thanks for helping me with my Russian homework and my social studies. Thanks for being goofy and silly. Thanks for teaching me to always say "thank you" even if it's for somebody to chop something out of you, when the chips are down. Thanks for dropping everything to come over for a drink. Thanks for being alive after so many assaults to your person. Stay alive, please. I love you.