It was as surreal as surreal gets. I've never fully understood the meaning of the word. Heard it before, even used it a few times. But never really felt it. Until now.
The scene: a perfect spring Saturday morning. Crisp. Clear. The kind of morning when hope arrives with a renewed greeting. I found myself at the wheel of his truck, in his sweatshirt, carrying a load of his trees to deliver to his customer. Beside me was his grandson - my 4 year old son. As we drove along the country roads, it hit me like a swat upside the head. This was a scene for the generations.
I spent my childhood around a father who loved nature. He was passionate about all things green, and thrived when he could be outside, in the warmth of a sunny afternoon, surrounded by the world His Creator provided. This was no hobby. Dad found a way to support his family for his entire life - yes, his entire life - doing what he loved.
This didn't seem particularly profound to me at the time. As a boy, I'd ride along with him in his pick up truck for all kinds of adventures: trecks to Wisconsin to pick up a load of boulders, where we'd always coast down the hill in neutral (exctiting!); trips to various nurseries to pick up beautiful varieties of shrubs, bushes, and trees for future installations; even just to ride beside him to drop off a bill or a proposal to a new customer's home. And of course I worked for him - for years - never truly aware of the modeling that was taking place before my eyes. This was a man doing what he loved.
It wasn't until I graduated from college and realized how overwhelming it is to figure out what you want to do to make a living. It was then I was able to see Dad and his work in a transformed light. My admiration was intense, and I recall discussing it with him one afternoon during this "in-between" phase of my life. His words to me were simple, yet impacting. Dad said, "Scott, find something that gives you hope, something of which you're passionate, something that when you lay your head on the pillow at night, you're hopeful for the day's possibilities. If you can do this, you'll be just fine."
I remember thinking at the time, hmmm, OK, and then what? But slowly and methodically, I sought a career of white collar pursuits, worlds away from where Dad spent his days. And despite the differences in our career paths, I always knew he was proud of me. As I moved from job to job and city to city, I began to so appreciate his phone calls, "How's the job?" he'd tenderly ask, and we'd discuss it for a bit, always with his focused and interested ear. Then we'd catch up on his newest lawn mower or how the weeds were just "...getting out of control..."
The last conversation we had, just a couple of days before he died unexpectedly, was in regard to my job. I'd been seeking a large promotion for sometime, and had just arrived back home from the business trip during which I was to find out if I'd gotten it. That night, I called Dad. He answered, not with "Hello?" or "How are you?" but with "Well?" As if to say, "Well tell me, I've been waiting to hear all week, did you get the job?"
"Yes Dad, I did. Can you believe it? I'm now the VP of Sales!"
"I'm so proud of you, Scott," he said, with tears breaking up his tone. "That is such wonderful news for a dad to hear. I love you."
That was the last time I ever spoke to him.
