Hey dad.

Why was I so unable to seek the opportunity to speak to my father when he was present and so willing now to wish I could rest in his presence now that he is away? I guess it never seemed urgent, ... rarely appeared valuable ... , and I feared a lecture (or at minimum, more information and advise than desired. Maybe I thought he would live forever. He appeared to be a near-super hero. Flawed as he was, he was my hero, and he is gone.

I could now honor him so much more appropriately with my present knowledge and experiences. How was I to know how challenging parenting was to be when I was a child myself. My station in life precluded my view of my predicament. We could laugh together, now. He could tell me stories of "me" my young mind discarded. His laughter and musing about his joy and pain over me; priceless memories, priceless artifacts forever lost. Once they were retrievable, but now they are with him in a far away place.

At the time of his death (April 15, 1980) I remember feeling a twinge of bitterness towards my siblings for the extra time they had with this man. I cried "unfair"! While I would not characterize it as bitterness, now, I am jealous of the extra moments only they had with dad.

Maybe your journey has covered a similar path.

While I would love to hear his voice, (even an occasional reprimand would be welcomed) I long more for his ominous larger-than-life presence. He really wasn't much of a hugger. Always willing but rarely pursuant. He was soft to hug (at least in the days of my childhood). His dark slacks and white starched and ironed shirts were all permeated with the smell of his "Chesterfields". Polished shoes; Floresheims! One heel always customized, "built-up" to compensate for a broken leg as an older teen leaving him 1/2" shorter on his left. Snow white hair always in place. Trifocals seemed to be permanently affixed. How I miss his raucous laughter, the feel of his rough and slightly scarred hands with thinning, blood-blotchy skin (mine is becoming more like his everyday) and the feeling I got when I followed him silently through the dairy. His hands seemed huge, like he could hold me, ...and the whole world within them. I do not ever remember him to ever exhibit any fear (even when he probably should have). He was a giant in my eyes.

Could I ever be a giant? I know my kids love me. That's a good thing. But I do wonder about where I stand in the scope of influence in their lives. I don't need to be on the top of any mountain, but I would like to know I was near the top. I just want to know I have done my job, and be sure I have done it well! Three out of the four are "raised" and independent. One is embarking upon teenager-dom and has learned the lessons of life very well to this point. They've all heard the same repetitious stories of triumph and failure. Each has seen me at my best and my worst. I pray I have honored my father and now, my own fathering profession. To have failed them would be painful indeed.

By the way, ... "Dad, ... you were the top!" Words which ring hollow in the silence of his absence.

I imagine he has saved those stories. Because I still need to hear them. Maybe, someday, I will.