1933-2013
Friday, November 15, 2013
I was watching a television show this past week when ironically the main character lost her father. In efforts to console her she was told, "The best way to keep your father's memory alive is to talk about him...tell me some stories."
Here are some stories:
The stories about my father make him out the trickster: from disassembling and reassembling the principle's car onto the second floor of the school, staging his own death in the middle of the campus quad, or trying to eat a train car full of bananas and never being able to look another banana in the eye again.
As you may have noticed from the photo montage of my dad's life, he once had long hair combed back with a handful of Pomade...very Elvis. Obviously, as we all know Dad with a buzz haircut, it wasn't a permanent look. After he had his high school graduation photo done, he and some buddies decided to buzz off their hair, but he was the only who followed through with it. When my grandmother saw it, she was horrified by what he had done, and banished him to the backyard. It was summer, so his suspension was more like camping than prison. She finally got used to it, and knew the look was Dad.
My dad's sister Shirley's excellent voice prompted my grandparents to encourage her talent. Not to be left out, they asked if there was an instrument Lee might be interested in learning to play. "Sure," he said, my grandparents hoped for a budding Benny Goodman in their midst. "The ukulele," he announced. Curiously they bought him a beautiful ukulele and he applied the effort to play it. It was a great novelty that my dad could play the ukulele, until my sister sat on it, and since my dad and sister aren't here to refute my version, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
My dad was more than a sports enthusiast; he played and excelled in baseball and football. Grandpa proudly talked about the high school game in which Dad kicked a 25-yard field goal only to have it voided due to a penalty. He kicked it again at the 40-yard mark, and it was good, but due to another penalty he would have to kick it again. Everyone groaned believing there was no way he could kick a 55-yard successfully; Grandpa may have confidently made a bet or two. It was too bad Dad's efforts only counted for 3-points, but a win is a win!
Golf was also one of his passions. He played often sparking the same passion in my brother and me for several years. In the early 70s he and some of his buddies, families in tow, made the trek to an annual golf tournament in McCall, Idaho. I loved watching his swing; in some ways it resembled Jack Nicholas. During his rounds us kids took on the role of "ball finder." If anyone missed the fairway and hit the ball into the woods, we were on the hunt. I was never really sure that off-course balls weren't somehow on purpose.
Dad's competitive nature always kicked in, whether it be Yahtzee or Liar's dice. And when my brother was big enough to pick up the game of golf, "friendly" head-to-head matches ensued and incentives were provided. "The day you can beat me," my dad said, "is the day I'll give you my clubs." The day it happened we all got all kinds of different perspectives of the match. I'm not sure Doug ever got those clubs.
From black licorice to Vienna sausage sandwiches to mince meat pies, his dietary choices could be weird. However, he hated vegetables and so did my brother, my sister, and I. It was a great retort, when broccoli was served, that "if Dad didn't have to eat it, why do we?" We, however, evolved to enjoy a variety of green foods, but I don't believe many green things every crossed his lips.
It is strange to realize that Dad is gone, his chair empty, and Dink and Socks at a loss of what to do. I told my students about losing my dad; telling them I might be a little slow. I was in a kind of fog. After several hugs, and smiles, and "I'm sorries," we got through the morning. As we were lining up for lunch, one of my "little monsters," one who I spend all day trying every strategy to get him to pay attention and listen to directions, came up to me and said, "he's in a good place." I broke down and hugged him tight telling him he was right. My dad is in a good place.
I sure hope heaven is like Hawaii. Heaven has to be like Hawaii...Dad would love that.
