In the summer of 2010 my family took a “trip-of-a-lifetime” to Alaska. We included my mother and mother-in-law, flew into Anchorage, rented a 32 foot RV and set out on a 10 day adventure.
My Mom and Dad had always dreamed of returning to Alaska where my Dad was stationed with the US Army the first 4 years of their marriage. I had seen pictures of their time in Alaska and heard tales of their motorcycle, fishing, and camping adventures but those memories never quite lined up with what I knew to be true of my dad.
I could envision the motorcycle. Some of my first memories include holding onto my Dad’s belt as he drove me to my neighborhood Kindergarten on the back of his bike. I remember riding with him through the mountains near our homes in Utah and Arizona when I was in middle school. I treasure those memories and I’m sure they help explain why I love riding with my husband on his motorcycle. And yet, the hunky 25 year old from the pictures with one arm wrapped around my cutie-patootie Mom and the other arm wrestling a 100 pound salmon remained beyond my comprehension.
The Dad I knew had chronic back pain from an Army reserves injury and COPD from 3 decades of red More cigarettes.
When I was in the 6th grade my Dad was hospitalized with pneumonia. He came home on oxygen and his health would require that he stopped smoking and changed his lifestyle to include healthier eating habits and exercise. As a pre-teen and teen in the years that followed I selfishly saw one side of his struggle.
The kitchen table was the setting of home life for my Dad. When he was not at work I knew to look for him in his chair at the head of the table. The straight backed chair must have been more comfortable for him than a cushioned couch and he could rest his elbows on the table as he read.
My Dad was not physically active. He was a prolific reader. He read a wide-range of genre and thought deeply about many things; and yet, he would put the book down if someone sat at the table with him to visit. Another afternoon would be precious…
My Dad was not a sports enthusiast. He was a talented clarinetist. He’d followed in his Father’s footsteps, learning his instrument at a young age. He had practiced until his fingers moved with ease and his craft seemed effortless.
I knew early on that a sure way to engage my Dad was to ask for help practicing the clarinet. My memories of quality time with him include solo and audition music and a metal ruler keeping a steady beat on the kitchen table. Another afternoon would be precious…
My Dad was quick to show affection and used the words, “I love you,” with my mom, my siblings, and me. I don’t think I ever left the house as a teen without hearing him call after me, “Be good”. I’ve never doubted that he cared deeply about me.
In college I prepared myself for his death. I knew, living 6 hours from my parents, that I should be ready to quickly pack a bag and drive home if needed. Looking back I can assume God was preparing me.
My Dad’s health continued to decline as I began my own family. I’m so grateful to have pictures of my Dad walking me down the aisle and holding all three of our children. Another afternoon would be precious…
We assumed his back pain was a continued degeneration of his injury 3 decades before and were surprised when advanced bone cancer was diagnosed. We had 1 short month with my Dad before his passing in May 2006. I know his final night will re-play for the remainder of my life.
My Dad had been hospitalized for the majority of May for pain management, but the morning of his passing my Mom was determined that he should go home. Transport was logistically difficult. He could be moved from the hospital bed to his wheelchair but he could not walk. He could not move from the wheelchair into a vehicle. He was not lucid.
In the middle of the night we were awakened and drove to my parents’ home where my mom was playing hymns on the piano. Franklin took over as pianist and my mom and I walked to the bedroom.
My Mom’s brother Charlie was sitting on the bed across from us as I called my siblings to let them say “good-bye”. My dad groaned, “Hurry, hurry,” and he was gone.
In the same way that I longed to know my Dad better by retracing his footsteps in Alaska, I would give almost anything for an afternoon to visit with my Dad. I’d show him our home and watch him as he fell in love with the beautiful young people our children have become. Our boys look so much like my dad. He would enjoy their wit and musical talent. He would be captivated by our daughter’s Spanish and her pitch-perfect melodies.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. Yes… another afternoon would be precious.