The Greatest Gift of All
When my dad unexpectedly passed away on Thanksgiving day, I was overcome with sadness and loss. My mother had passed away just a week before my 10th birthday, and until his remarriage 6 years later, dad was both father and mother to my 3 brothers and I. This was long ago. Long before single parents and family-friendly workplaces. Long before flex-time, job-sharing and telecommuting. Long before understanding bosses and lawsuits based on anti-family-ism. When one of us was sick, hurt or had an emergency at school, dad juggled his home and work responsibilities, always careful to maintain that necessary balance between the two. Obviously, I’ve been spending the past weeks thinking a lot about my dad. We had nicknames – I called him “Pops” and he called me “Daughts”. I’ve thought about the wonderful things we did, but I’ve also remembered the silly and nonsensical things too. Those are the ones that bring a smile to my face. Those are the memories that I treasure. I’ve remembered times I’ve called him out of the blue – mostly thanks to no long distance charges on my cell phone – with questions that only my Pops could answer. Once while I was driving, something on the radio reminded me of Roy Rogers, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the name of his band. And I just had to know it – immediately! So I called Pops, who not only knew the answer, but didn’t find my question in any way odd! (For those of you who are now curious, Roy Rogers’ band was called “The Sons of the Pioneers”.) The contents of my dad’s wallet was another legendary cause for a laugh. It always reminded me of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, and I chuckled when my 11 year old daughter asked me, “now who will have a safety pin when I need one?” It’s funny what things we remember.
I’ve got regrets too. I regret all the things that my children will never get to do with my dad. I regret that my youngest child, at 5 years old, will probably not even remember the things that he already did with my dad. I regret that there is now no one to call when I can’t remember the words to a Gilbert & Sullivan song, or what year we took a certain trip, or what some obscure office in the federal government does. My dad was the Go-To-Guy for just about everything! He could make anything out of nothing, and usually did. I still remember the church we built (with working lights) to represent the “one if by land; two if by see” when I was studying Paul Revere.
I’m sorry that my kids will not have this role model of absolute optimism. He was a look on the sunny side; there’s a silver lining; the cup’s always half full guy. He always taught us that if you don’t like something, either change it or deal with it. (And to this day, I have a really hard time listening to incessant whiners.) These were not just words he spoke, but the way he lived every aspect of his life. The phrase I always associate with him, is “It could be worse…” And you know what? He was right. The greatest compliment he ever gave me was last year, after hurricane Jeanne hit us. Jeanne was the only hurricane we evacuated for, and we had enough damage to have to pretty much rebuild the house. But all I kept thinking was it could have been so much worse. What if my kids had been in their beds when their ceilings caved in? What if they had been hurt or worse? What if we hadn’t had insurance? What if our insurance company had not been as helpful as they were? There were so many people who were having a much rougher time than we were, and I was so grateful that all we had to do was rebuild a house. We even managed to find an apartment to take 5 people, 2 cats and a dog in the interim. My dad said that he was so proud of how I handled that, but in reality, I was just following the example of how he lived his life.
My dad and I were always pretty open about our feelings for each other. We’ve always been a touchy-feely kind of family. We hug and kiss each other whenever we get together. And for that I’m grateful. I’ve heard a lot of people say, after someone they loved passes away, that there were so many things they wish they had said. That they wish they had told them that they loved them. Or told them more often. Whatever my regrets are, at losing my beloved Pops, I can honestly say that’s not one of them. And I do so wish that everyone could say the same thing. So don’t put off that phone call or visit. Don’t keep words inside, thinking that they know how I feel. Say it. Do it. Your recipient will feel better and so will you. It doesn’t cost a dime, but as the commercial says; it’s priceless.
So, although my hurt is still new and raw, I’m trying to remember the good things about my dad. And I’m taking great comfort from the fact that there was nothing left unsaid between us. And that’s the greatest gift of all.
I’ve got regrets too. I regret all the things that my children will never get to do with my dad. I regret that my youngest child, at 5 years old, will probably not even remember the things that he already did with my dad. I regret that there is now no one to call when I can’t remember the words to a Gilbert & Sullivan song, or what year we took a certain trip, or what some obscure office in the federal government does. My dad was the Go-To-Guy for just about everything! He could make anything out of nothing, and usually did. I still remember the church we built (with working lights) to represent the “one if by land; two if by see” when I was studying Paul Revere.
I’m sorry that my kids will not have this role model of absolute optimism. He was a look on the sunny side; there’s a silver lining; the cup’s always half full guy. He always taught us that if you don’t like something, either change it or deal with it. (And to this day, I have a really hard time listening to incessant whiners.) These were not just words he spoke, but the way he lived every aspect of his life. The phrase I always associate with him, is “It could be worse…” And you know what? He was right. The greatest compliment he ever gave me was last year, after hurricane Jeanne hit us. Jeanne was the only hurricane we evacuated for, and we had enough damage to have to pretty much rebuild the house. But all I kept thinking was it could have been so much worse. What if my kids had been in their beds when their ceilings caved in? What if they had been hurt or worse? What if we hadn’t had insurance? What if our insurance company had not been as helpful as they were? There were so many people who were having a much rougher time than we were, and I was so grateful that all we had to do was rebuild a house. We even managed to find an apartment to take 5 people, 2 cats and a dog in the interim. My dad said that he was so proud of how I handled that, but in reality, I was just following the example of how he lived his life.
My dad and I were always pretty open about our feelings for each other. We’ve always been a touchy-feely kind of family. We hug and kiss each other whenever we get together. And for that I’m grateful. I’ve heard a lot of people say, after someone they loved passes away, that there were so many things they wish they had said. That they wish they had told them that they loved them. Or told them more often. Whatever my regrets are, at losing my beloved Pops, I can honestly say that’s not one of them. And I do so wish that everyone could say the same thing. So don’t put off that phone call or visit. Don’t keep words inside, thinking that they know how I feel. Say it. Do it. Your recipient will feel better and so will you. It doesn’t cost a dime, but as the commercial says; it’s priceless.
So, although my hurt is still new and raw, I’m trying to remember the good things about my dad. And I’m taking great comfort from the fact that there was nothing left unsaid between us. And that’s the greatest gift of all.