Tomorrow I will help my kids celebrate Father's Day by honoring their father, but a part of me will be remembering my father.
In August, it will be two years since we released the man we loved to his higher power and said our good byes. The last thing my father heard was my voice reminding him of those here who loved him and would miss him, and of those he loved that had gone before him. The last thing he felt was a kiss good bye and my hand squeezing his.
I should share memories, but where to start? I have many. Instead, I will share what I said at his memorial service. Those of you who were with us on that day, I thank you again for coming. Those of you that couldn't be there in the flesh, but read these words, please bear with me. Those of you who did not have the pleasure of his company, this is your chance to know the man I knew and loved as Dad.
Me and my father, Tony (May 11, 1925 - Aug 8, 2004), on my wedding day.
Memorial service for my father, August 15, 2004:
A few weeks ago, I sat with my family and watched the democratic nation convention. I sat and wondered just why John Kerry’s daughters were standing there, telling dumb stories about their father. Oh, I knew that they were there to help him get the nomination, but why the dumb stories? I wondered how they got the courage to tell them to all those people.
Today, I think I have the answer. They wanted us to see their father, not as a war hero, not as a politician, but as a man, a father, a personal hero. That’s why I chose to speak today. No, my father wasn’t a politician, although he fought in the war, he wasn’t a huge hero, but he was man, a father, my hero, and I do have a hamster story. No, he didn’t give it CPR, but he did tear down part of the bathroom wall to rescue one.
Those of you who knew him, even slightly, knew that he was a man of few words. A quiet man. He had so much to say, he was so intelligent, I sometimes wondered if the fact that he had eight sisters had something to do with it.
Even without words, he was a teacher. He taught by example. The most memorable of those lessons came when hewas trying to teach me how to parallel park. After ten minutes of trying to instruct me, he ordered me out of the car and directed me to sit on the side of the parking lot and watch him do it over and over. It must have worked, I can parallel park a school bus.
There were other things that we learned just by living with Daddy: Work hard. Act responsibly. Save a few pennies here and there. If you read the news paper first, put it back in order. Family is important. Almost anything can be fixed with enough duct tape, and most of all, help other people when you can.
This is the way most of us will remember him, helping people. I lost track of my cousin, Ed, twenty five years ago. Two years ago, I found an email address for him. I wrote and asked if he remembered me.
"Of course I remember you," he replied. "Uncle Tony’s daughter." He then went on to tell me how my father helped him get his first car running. I guess that’s how he remembered me, Uncle Tony who helped get his car on the road’s daughter. Humbling, but still a proud moment. Some of my most cherished memories are of the times I got to tag along while he helped family members.
There were things he did, over and over, that didn’t make sense when I was a teen and knew it all, but later in life, it sunk in...at least some of it. I now know why he checked the water and oil in my car each time I pulled in the driveway. I now understand why he used to drive past my house in Conway on his way home from Ambridge to Baden each night. I now see why he worked all those hours and always tried to put a few dollars away. I can even understand why he spent countless hours of his free time helping his family. I can only hope, in years to come, that we, my brother and I, and our children, can show that we studied under the master and have learned our lessons well.
Of course, like all fathers, he pulled a few fast ones on us. I’m proud to say that I did catch on...eventually. I now know the truth about Christmas and I know that the road doesn’t always go past one of his sister’s houses, no matter where you are going. I still don’t know how he always knew who had fresh cookies and hot coffee ready. Guess I never will.
My father loved his family, and we loved him.
My parents just celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary. By that time, my father didn’t understand the concept, or remember that my mother was his wife. Over the years, huge chunks of his past were lost, he didn’t understand the relationships he had with any of us. He told me that he didn’t remember me living in his house and when I reminded him that he was my father, he asked how old I was. When I told him, he demanded I tell him how old he was. He didn’t believe me.
Undaunted, he forged new relationships with us. He didn’t remember that we were related, but it didn’t matter. He learned to love and enjoy the pack of wacky people who claimed to be his family.
When his memory loss became so severe that he didn’t remember marrying my mother or her name, he gave her the most incredible gift of all...he renamed her Hon and fell in love with her all over again.
It delighted us to watch him reach for her hand and kiss it, to see them share jokes that no one else understood. The last time that he was admitted to the hospital, they sent him for a CAT scan. It made the nurses’ day when they left my mother in the hall and closed the door between them and my father kept calling, "Hon! Hon!" and blowing her kisses.
You know, we have been losing my father, in bits and pieces, for ten years. We’ve been saying good bye to parts of him all along, but the shock of losing him is still profound. He loved us, was loved by us, and will be missed.
When I decided to speak today, I wondered if I would be able to do it. A friend of mine assured me that God would give me the strength to do what I had to do. Although our heavenly father has given me the ability to stand here and speak, I’ll not be greedy, just thankful. I hope now you’ll see that my father was a hero too.
Thank you for coming to honor my father’s memory and for sharing our grief. By sharing it, you have lightened our burden...God bless you.
Happy Father's Day!
