A Gloomy Post for a Gloomy Day

Dad and I at my wedding to Joyce,
December 20, 1969
Concordia Lutheran Church
Akron, Ohio

Here in Hudson, Ohio, today it's dark and dour. Rain is heavy in the sky, and there's little doubt that it will--when it's inconvenient for most people--empty the clouds on us.

It doesn't help my mood.

Yesterday, as you well know, was Father's Day, and as I've gotten older, I find myself more and more affected by days that celebrate those whom I've loved and lost--my grandparents, my parents, uncles, cousins, in-laws (oh, were Joyce's parents wonderful to me!), and on and on and on.

Father's Day was a tough one for me this year. I think of my father all the time, of course, but yesterday I was nearly overwhelmed by memories of him--and of my own all-too-rapid approach to that precipice, where, once Time and Health have shoved me over, I will transform into Memories for others as I hurtle toward ... let's not get into that!

I've written about my dad a lot here, and I'm not going to repeat all the stories--but just a quick reminder. The second oldest of a dozen children (nine boys!) growing up on a farm in north-central Oregon, Dad as a teenager lost his own father. A high-school track and football star, Dad, born in 1913, spent his youthful years dealing with the Great Depression, World War II (he served in both Europe and the South Pacific), the Korean War (he did not go overseas, thank goodness).

Somehow he managed to work his way through college--and grad school (earning an Ed.D. at the University of Oklahoma with the help of the G. I. Bill)--to meet my mother in Enid, Oklahoma, and to go on to have an academic career, whose pitiful income he supplemented with weekend gigs as a preacher (he was an ordained minister, Disciples of Christ). He also stayed in the Air Force Reserves, and after his death in 1999, Mom continued receiving his pension until her own death in 2018.

Animals loved Dad. I saw squirrels eat out of his hand. Birds land on his finger. Feral dogs that would have devoured me for a snack, lick his hand, tail wagging, "smile" formed on the snout that looked to me as if it belonged to an angry timber wolf.

He supported all three of his sons--the three of us as different as if we'd grown up on separate planets in separate galaxies, in not-even-parallel universes.

Not for one second in my life did I feel he didn't love me--even when the Old Hairbrush came out to remind my bottom that it was the seat of one who had done something ... punishable. (Didn't happen often--but was invariably deserved.)

Among the most difficult times in my life? Going out to see them in their final home in western Massachusetts, where I witnessed Dad's entire decline: cane-walker-wheelchair-bed. It was just so unbelievable to me that this man, this quondam superior athlete, was now lying on his back, unable to do a single thing that he had once loved to do. Yet even near the end he could laugh; tears could form in his eyes when he saw his family.

Dad had a gorgeous tenor voice and back in Enid had made some records of some religious songs ("Teach Me to Pray," "The Lord's Prayer"). We played the latter at his funeral, at our son's wedding, at Mom's funeral, and in the pews his three sons sat there, dissolved in memory. Lost in loss.

Dad's been gone more than twenty years now (he died at age 86 in 1999), and that alone seems impossible. I remember that when my mother called to tell me, I had just come back from jogging a few miles. Devastated, I went upstairs and told Joyce, then into the shower where I sank, sobbing, to the floor.

I could do that right now--sink to the floor. I still feel his loss with a piercing agony.

And so, yesterday, I spent a lot of time in bed, resting, trying to sleep, weeping.

And then, after supper, our son, his wife, and three sons came for a "porch visit," and I recovered, partially.

As those of you who have lost dear parents know full well, there is no full recovery. Nor do I want there to be.