Dads
This morning I read a few blogs where people were saying marvelous things about their dads and about their children's fathers as well. And so here I sit at my desk in tears. I'm sure one day it will get easier. I'm sure one day I won't burst into tears at inopportune moments.
I just hope I never forget.
I hope I never forget his eyebrows.
I hope I never forget the sight of him hunched over the stove frying up his ritualistic morning egg.
I hope I never forget the joy he found in leading his grandchildren around on the horse.
Or his methodical signature.
Or his worn farmer's hands.
Or his love for God and his family.
Or his smirk.
Or the sound of his voice belting out a hymn Sunday mornings while waking himself, from his tractor out on the field or from the yard while carrying pails of chop.
Or his pride in me. In my spunk, in my brains, in my opinions.
Or the way he would nap on a Sunday afternoon. Fetal-like on the couch with his hands tucked between his knees.
Or the way he would keep track of his finances meticulously.
Or his teasing of Mom in her speed lawn-mowing or her "failed" buns.
His love of the Olympics.
Of history.
Of geography.
Of knowledge.
Of politics.
Of the Bible.
Shortly before his death I took a drive out to visit him. Spontaneously. Mom was away and I just wanted to see what life was like for Dad when Mom was away. I cling fiercely to those memories. We took a walk that Saturday. I wanted to finish mowing the lawn but I'm so glad I took the time for that walk. We walked out to the dugout to see a mother goose and her goslings. That was my dad. A busy man but a man that had a love for nature like few I've met before or since.
I don't know that I'll ever see goslings and not think of him. And that makes me happy and I'm sure it does him too.
I just hope I never forget.
I hope I never forget his eyebrows.
I hope I never forget the sight of him hunched over the stove frying up his ritualistic morning egg.
I hope I never forget the joy he found in leading his grandchildren around on the horse.
Or his methodical signature.
Or his worn farmer's hands.
Or his love for God and his family.
Or his smirk.
Or the sound of his voice belting out a hymn Sunday mornings while waking himself, from his tractor out on the field or from the yard while carrying pails of chop.
Or his pride in me. In my spunk, in my brains, in my opinions.
Or the way he would nap on a Sunday afternoon. Fetal-like on the couch with his hands tucked between his knees.
Or the way he would keep track of his finances meticulously.
Or his teasing of Mom in her speed lawn-mowing or her "failed" buns.
His love of the Olympics.
Of history.
Of geography.
Of knowledge.
Of politics.
Of the Bible.
Shortly before his death I took a drive out to visit him. Spontaneously. Mom was away and I just wanted to see what life was like for Dad when Mom was away. I cling fiercely to those memories. We took a walk that Saturday. I wanted to finish mowing the lawn but I'm so glad I took the time for that walk. We walked out to the dugout to see a mother goose and her goslings. That was my dad. A busy man but a man that had a love for nature like few I've met before or since.
I don't know that I'll ever see goslings and not think of him. And that makes me happy and I'm sure it does him too.
posted by ccap at 10:57 AM
5 Comments:
from my experience - the memories stay, but the sting lessens. But even 6 years later, there are moments when the tears surprise me. I'd rather have it that way than have no tears left for him, though.
Oops. Shouldn't have read that just before going to Mom & Paul's for lunch. I might not be able to see through the tears as I ride my bike.
I wish I could have known your dad. But, to use an old cliche, he lives on through his children. When you talk about what a great man he was, I see so many of those wonderful characteristics in you and Heather. I am honoured to know you two and to call you my friends.
Linda, yes, he was a great man but BELIEVE ME, he had some major faults too. I guess it's just easier to brush those aside when they're not in my face on a regular basis.
:) re "he had some faults" - I remember saying that when my Dad died - "he dies, and suddenly he's perfect."
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