A remembrance

 Fifty years, to be exact.

My father died on August 4, 1972.  I was 14; my sister was 11.  Fifty years later, I miss him as much as I did when he died; the loss was earth shattering for me—he was the greatest man I’ve ever known.

It’s been a while since I visited my parents’ gravesite.  I took a dozen roses and had a chitchat with Daddy.  Neither my husband nor my children had the privilege of knowing him.  I told him that he would have loved (and liked) them all; that I married a man so much like him and that they would have spent a lot of time together in the workshop or tinkering on a car.  I told him that he would have cheered our boys on in everything they did—music, sports, careers.  He was a great encourager.  

Our oldest is named after him.  He turned 40 this week, which is how old my father was when I was born. There are quite a few people named after him; that’s how much he was loved.  

Kind, brilliant, and wicked sense of humor.  My godmother called him a “goddamned saint” for putting up with my mother.  Don’t get me wrong—I loved my mother, too, but she was her own force to be reckoned with and while I know she did her best to survive after my father died, I have spent many years trying to make sure I didn’t follow her footsteps when it came to living life.  

More about Mom in a future post.

One thing I take away from all of this is that I embrace my nearest and dearest every chance I get, and tell them that I love them every time I see them.  We may never know when we will go to the next station, but while we're in the here-and-now part, let's love one another and don't be afraid to say it.