One of my favorites

We did alot of traveling when I was growing up, and often we'd end up at a state park, where we'd have a picnic and go for a hike, maybe find some tennis courts and hit the ball a bit. This picture was taken when I was nine years old, in 1978, at Rock Cut State Park in Rockford, IL. Dad would have been 47 at the time. I had just fell into the lake while trying to grab a rock to skip. Dad, of course at my side, grabbed me before I got too wet, and so I rolled my pants up, I think in some effort for them to dry and not get wetter in case of another slip. I can recall the beautiful day, the feeling of adventure as we explored the park, and Mom's constant picture taking. I thought Dad to be the coolest cat ever, which I think shows in this picture. We were buds.

Dad and me, both at 38

Is it supposed to get easier?

Strange feelings of late....very heavy hearted days. Perhaps it's the change of season that's approaching. The flash of cold air brings a mood along with it. The dying has begun.

The other day I passed by the gas station Dad was at the morning he had the stroke. He'd gone out to breakfast that morning, a grey and cold December day. Dad always loved going out to breakfast. My whole life growing up, except on Sunday, he'd be at a local restaurant for breakfast. It served as his community, his mission field of sorts. So like he had for the previous 50 or so years of mornings, he had his breakfast out, and while driving home noticed that he needed gas. So he stopped and filled the tank. This simple task done a thousand times before. For me, I've found the simple has become profound since he left us. I often wonder what he thought about during those few minutes standing alongside his truck while the tank ("tick tick tick") slowly filled to the top and the wind whipped coldly alongside him. Did he know? Did he have any suspician that things were on the verge of change?

If he only had known! Within an hour or so of that very normal morning, that very normal breakfast, and that very normal fill up at the local gas station, his life would essentially come to an end. That's the most disturbing part of it all. The rapid decent from normality to insane; from bright light to darkness; from life to death, all within moments of eachother. Boom. Done. Over. Just like that.

Think I miss him more now than ever. As the birth of my third child approaches, I'm struck by the irony of life starting anew within feet of where he died. Same hospital, same month, just 12 months apart. From death comes life I've heard it said, and it's true. What better way to celebrate all that this life offers than with a new little person. He'd have been the one I'd be most excited to tell. He would have cried a little bit, and told me in his calm way something to the effect that I'd never regret it, and that his years as a father were the most meaningful of his entire life. Mine too, Dad. Mine too.

A Provider with Passion

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.

Questions I wish I'd asked

It's been just over six months since Dad was transferred to Paradise. As I've moved from obsession to detachment regarding him, I am continually struck by how much I didn't know about this man, my father. He was raised in an era of masculine supremacy that didn't allow for free and permissive intimacy with one's children. I knew Dad through the person he revealed to me. I also knew him as I observed him with others. And yet, in the grand scheme of his 76 year existence, there is so much I didn't know about this man I worshipped. It is one of life's great ironies, that the Dad from whose genes I derive experienced so much life without my knowledge. I don't mention this as a criticism, but an observation in light of his departure. As I've contemplated his time here on earth, there is so much I wish I'd inquired about. Here are some examples:

How many children did you want when you were first married?

What was childhood like being raised with all those sisters? How did that effect your relationship with women?

Who were you closer to, your Mom or your Dad? Why?

What would you say was your greatest challenge as a young man? As a young husband? As a young father?

Where were you when Kennedy was shot?

Did new Cadillacs seem outrageously expensive to you when you'd drive by the dealer and dream?

How did you afford summer homes in northern Wisconsin for all those years?

When and where were you the happiest? Tell me about it.

Any regrets?

Had you been feeling OK those last weeks of life? Were you ready to go?

What was your greatest fear in life?

Describe a favorite childhood memory.

I am comforted, Dad, knowing that one day, I'll be able to sit with you, look into your brilliant blue eyes, and ask you these questions. I long for that day.

When it all started

I remember the moment with clarity, my commencement to grief. Dad, his wife, and I escaped to Canada for a fishing trip for a few days. It was a rare opportunity for me to step away from my hectic life of Provider/Father and relax with Dad in an environment we both adored. Though it was three years ago, I can recall the joy of being with him - just with him again - as a renewal of sorts. For the first time in years, I had his undivided attention. It was as if I was his son all over again, because my kids weren't there thirsting for his attention, etc. It felt wonderful. As the days raced by, I suspected that he too was sensing the preciousness of this time. And just maybe, we both realized that this might be the last time we'd have this kind of opportunity.

On the drive home, I recall a two hour stretch as we headed towards the Canadian border. Cyndi was asleep, and Dad and I got to talking. Our favorite music from times gone by played softly in the background, and as the rocky coastline of pines flew by the window, we reminisced together. We'd already had the conversations about work, and raising of kids, and the struggles of "managing it all." No, this was our chance to recall the good times of years long since past. And that's what we did, with both of us recalling how rich a time we had together as father and son: the routines we shared, the vacation adventures we went on, the love of dogs and cars and tennis. It was so bittersweet that emotions caught us both at various times during the sharing. We'd look at each other, both realizing that it would never be like that again. Having commune with this part of Dad's heart - a part I knew existed, but so rarely emerged - felt like heaven on earth.

As we pulled into the gas station at the border, my heart began to feel a bit heavy. Our time was ending - exchange was over for now. I started to wonder if I'd ever experience him like this again, where sharing the vulnerable "stuff" was OK, even desired. It dawned on me that part of him was gone, the Daddy part that nurtured me, tucked me in at night, held my hand when I trembled, and would always be there. I was a Dad now, too, and this was life's natural evolution, but it seemed to strike me profoundly at that moment. Perhaps it was provoked by the bittersweet memories (it felt so good to hear him talk like this!) we discussed for the previous few hours. Whatever it was, I was troubled when we returned to the car. Now I understand: it was at that moment - three years before his death - that I began to grieve.

We got back on the road. Sitting in the back seat now, with Dad at the wheel of my car, I glanced up to see Dad's eyes in the rear view mirror. He was looking at me, noting my sadness. As he winked, I realized that he understood my pain, and he shared in it with me. And though we never talked about it (or talked like that) again, I knew at that moment that he'd be holding me in his arms forever.

Am I willing?

The pace of life maintains it's warp speed. Everyone around me seems to pass me by. I'm like the granny in the Buick in the right lane unsure of just what speed I can go. Slow then fast - then stuck. Immobilized. Dad is everywhere sometimes, and then he disappears. I want to cry out to him, "Dad, wait for me, please wait. I see your arms open wide." I think it's the tedious parts of life that have taken on a fresh challenge. I sat down on a recent Saturday afternoon to balance my checkbook, easily one of life's joys. As I reviewed the transactions around the time of Dad's escape, I noticed the ledger was fraught with errors, wrong transaction amounts entered, receipts that had disappeared, just a mess. It took me quite awhile to reconcile, and afterward, I thought to myself, "This is how grief is to me. I want to reconcile it and be done." Oh how i wish.

We all know the saying about time and how it's supposed to heal. I don't buy it. This is why: for my entire life, whenever Dad talked about his Dad, he would cry. Always. Every single time. It was a fresh and painful place for him, even forty years after his dad died. I recall thinking on more than one occasion that he must have really loved his pops, that they must have been close friends. And I'd often wonder, will it be the same for me when he's gone? Will it plague me or will it be a sweet sadness? Sometimes I couldn't tell the difference for him, and so far for me, forty-five days later, I'm engulfed in the pain part of remembering.

All that I'm reading tells me that I need to be willing to grieve, willing to feel it, willing to enter into that place. If I don't, the "experts" say, I will face a deeper pain further down life's road. "Hmmm, interesting," I think. Does it make me more receptive to going to the dark place? Sometimes. Always. Never. Too soon to tell, I suppose. And life goes. I've got to get to the dry cleaners today.