Bye, With Love
My father passed away on Jan. 30. Though he'd been struggling, winning, struggling, slipping, fighting since Dec. 6, it was inevitable that he would see his options for the not so great future in that body and make a decision. I respect that, I even admire his grace and strength.
But I am sad. Oh so sad. I am now without parents, without that buffer generation. No longer is there a dad who inquires about the state of my tire tread. No more will I be able to brighten up even the darkest corners of my heart by buying him chocolates. No more will anyone really *get* the hilarity of adding superfluous prefixes and suffixes to various nouns: long before there was "embiggen" in colloquial speech, my father was saying "enwrenchment" or "empuzzlement."
He showed his humorous disdain easily, much more easily than his admiration or love. As he got up from his breakfast each morning, paper in hand, for his daily, leisurely session in the toilet, he would say, "I'm going to call Jerry Falwell now." All of our tools and appliances were subject to markings such as "El Castrato" (tree trimmers), "Slicemaster" (meat cleaver), "Bugmaster 2000" (dime store flyswatter).
My last Christmas present to him was a book of illustrations by R. Crumb, who doodled on anything, just as my father did. One of my dad's famous doodles is known in the family as "Potted Lion Meat Again?" depicting some Roman soldiers breaking into their MREs. When I have the time and inclination, I shall find that cartoon and scan it in.
I feel in this 22nd hour after his death the very real need to catalog my memories of him, those fresh and only a week or two old, and those from 30 years ago, when we spent long summers together after my mother went back to work and he stayed firmly retired. He bought a little sailboat and taught me how to sail it on Lake Travis, though was disappointed by my queasiness in chop. I tried to please him in other ways - becoming a good shot, learning how to temper steel alongside him and perfecting the martini (gin, please, with lemon).
Sam, last week, when I left you to attend my company's annual convention, I saw a brilliant move by the bartender. He had a little spray bottle filled with vermouth, and he simply misted the inside of the chilled martini glass! Ah ha, I thought,the perfect hint of vermouth for the ultimate dry martini! I am sorry that I forgot to tell you about this on the phone when we spoke for the last time.
I didn't forget to say I love you, though. And I'm glad. Because you said it back. And even if we had talked about martinis, your grandchildren, my tires or your Mercedes, the love was still there. I'd have you around longer, you know, but I understand it was difficult to stay. I'm just glad we finally got around to saying the words, over and over again, in our last weeks together.
Because I love you. Good bye, Sam. With all love.
But I am sad. Oh so sad. I am now without parents, without that buffer generation. No longer is there a dad who inquires about the state of my tire tread. No more will I be able to brighten up even the darkest corners of my heart by buying him chocolates. No more will anyone really *get* the hilarity of adding superfluous prefixes and suffixes to various nouns: long before there was "embiggen" in colloquial speech, my father was saying "enwrenchment" or "empuzzlement."
He showed his humorous disdain easily, much more easily than his admiration or love. As he got up from his breakfast each morning, paper in hand, for his daily, leisurely session in the toilet, he would say, "I'm going to call Jerry Falwell now." All of our tools and appliances were subject to markings such as "El Castrato" (tree trimmers), "Slicemaster" (meat cleaver), "Bugmaster 2000" (dime store flyswatter).
My last Christmas present to him was a book of illustrations by R. Crumb, who doodled on anything, just as my father did. One of my dad's famous doodles is known in the family as "Potted Lion Meat Again?" depicting some Roman soldiers breaking into their MREs. When I have the time and inclination, I shall find that cartoon and scan it in.
I feel in this 22nd hour after his death the very real need to catalog my memories of him, those fresh and only a week or two old, and those from 30 years ago, when we spent long summers together after my mother went back to work and he stayed firmly retired. He bought a little sailboat and taught me how to sail it on Lake Travis, though was disappointed by my queasiness in chop. I tried to please him in other ways - becoming a good shot, learning how to temper steel alongside him and perfecting the martini (gin, please, with lemon).
Sam, last week, when I left you to attend my company's annual convention, I saw a brilliant move by the bartender. He had a little spray bottle filled with vermouth, and he simply misted the inside of the chilled martini glass! Ah ha, I thought,the perfect hint of vermouth for the ultimate dry martini! I am sorry that I forgot to tell you about this on the phone when we spoke for the last time.
I didn't forget to say I love you, though. And I'm glad. Because you said it back. And even if we had talked about martinis, your grandchildren, my tires or your Mercedes, the love was still there. I'd have you around longer, you know, but I understand it was difficult to stay. I'm just glad we finally got around to saying the words, over and over again, in our last weeks together.
Because I love you. Good bye, Sam. With all love.
