We buried my father a week ago, today. We had fair weather, for February and there was a nice turnout. Memories were shared, kind words spoken, music he would have liked, then Taps played with a twenty one gun salute, and it was over. I couldn't help thinking, the one thing I had feared since childhood, finally was a reality. Also, I thought my sweet, almost ninety year old father, would have wanted his gray hair covered with Grecian Formula before so many people came to see him. I take after my father.
I know I have the rest of my life to miss him, so it's pointless to do it all today. But I can't stop thinking about him. I dreamed I was at his house, with my brothers, trying to decide what to do with all his stuff. I looked up and saw him walk out of the house with his fishing pole. I felt kind of good about that.
The memories I have are not likely to mean much to others, but that's OK.
When I was a child, he was the biggest, strongest man in the world. He worked hard and came in after dark most evenings. He stood at the sink, scrubbing from his fingertips to elbows, the grease from a days labor. Next, he took off his cap and scrubbed it in the same manner. Finally, he sat, exhausted, at the dinner table, long after everyone else had eaten.
Sometimes, when he had to eat out in the field, he bought sandwich makings and cookies at a grocery/gas station deli. There were a lot of those back then. This is where we "ate out" while traveling on vacation. Kids today will never know how good a Coke, or RC Cola taste, from a glass bottle. Anyway, he brought the leftover cookies to us, and they were terrible, old man cookies, but we fought over them.
I loved to watch him take batting practice with my brothers or our dog, Blackie. I bet he could hit a ball to the moon, if Blackie could retrieve it.
He was the worlds greatest dad, and he had the cap, T shirt and coffee mug to prove it.
I know I have the rest of my life to miss him, so it's pointless to do it all today. But I can't stop thinking about him. I dreamed I was at his house, with my brothers, trying to decide what to do with all his stuff. I looked up and saw him walk out of the house with his fishing pole. I felt kind of good about that.
When I was a child, he was the biggest, strongest man in the world. He worked hard and came in after dark most evenings. He stood at the sink, scrubbing from his fingertips to elbows, the grease from a days labor. Next, he took off his cap and scrubbed it in the same manner. Finally, he sat, exhausted, at the dinner table, long after everyone else had eaten.
I loved to watch him take batting practice with my brothers or our dog, Blackie. I bet he could hit a ball to the moon, if Blackie could retrieve it.
He was the worlds greatest dad, and he had the cap, T shirt and coffee mug to prove it.
No comments:
Post a Comment