This was written ten days after Dad died. For many reasons, however, I waited until now to publish it.
How do you eulogize a man who never wanted a eulogy?
My Dad died ten days ago. Out of respect for his wishes, there was no service for him. If you knew Dad, you'd understand how truly fitting that was.
Dad was the youngest child of a large family. He was born late in both of his parents' lives. He had four older brothers and two older sisters, one of whom died at age 9 before Dad was even born. I don't know a lot about his childhood beyond where he was born (Arkansas) and how old he was when he moved to California. He didn't talk about it. I know that he married young, had two children and was divorced all before his 30th birthday. Then he met my mom. In my mind, that is where his story began. Not because I discount anything that happened before that. It is merely the beginning of the story that he would tell and, later on, that I would live with him.
I grew up at ballparks. Dad was a pitcher in a number of fast-pitch softball leagues. He was good. Living in California, the weather allowed him to play in summer and winter leagues. I can still remember being fascinated by him pitching, the way he was so calm out there on the mound and then that lightning-fast swing of his arm in a full circle and the release of the ball. It was mesmerizing. Mom was his biggest fan in the stands, usually razzing the other team's pitcher mercilessly. In fact, on a few occasions she was asked by umpires to keep it down!
When Dad eventually decided he was too old for pitching, he took up golf. For more than three decades he took every chance he got to be on the links. He took it serious, too! Dad was quietly competitive. He expected everyone to play their best or not play at all, something I think he passed on to his son. Dad loved watching Brad play! Whether it was football, basketball, track or baseball, Dad was there watching. He wasn't that father that expected a win or else though. What I remember about Dad is that he expected effort and good sportsmanship, win or lose. He expected honor on any playing field.
He wasn't a perfect man though and I would never want to paint him as such. He certainly had regrets in life. There were relationships that I know he wished had been better. Maybe he didn't try enough to foster them when he could. Maybe he did try and got burned. I will never know. On two occasions I was fortunate enough to spend long hours in a car with him when he helped my family move from one military assignment to another. I tried picking his brain about what his childhood was like and why his relationships with his family were the way they were and he'd just laugh and give me some generic answer.
"We don't have anything in common."
"I'm too busy."
I think a lot of it was that Dad liked being a bit of a loner. He was not a social butterfly - at all! As a younger man, he often spent hours in his garage with all of his tools. If something needed fixing, he fixed it. Need something built? He would build it for you. He was always efficient with his time. Get to the golf course, play, leave. Go to a restaurant, eat, leave. When I called him on the phone, our conversations were short and to the point. He did not like to yammer on.
That's where I drove him nuts! As a child on car rides, he always teased me for talking too much! It was always with a smile though. That's how you knew you were loved by Dad...if he teased you, he liked you. You knew how much he liked you by the way he hugged you. Because I married a career military man, I never lived close to my parents. When we would go home to visit, I'd always get one of Dad's big bear hugs when I arrived and then again when I left. He wasn't big on words. His "I love you" was in the bone-crushing hug he gave you.
So how do you eulogize a man who never wanted attention, who was content to just be in his own corner of the world? A man who quietly provided for and loved his family. A man who never wanted his life put on display and certainly wouldn't want his death put on display either. For me, the best I can do is offer up the words I hope he always knew.
I love you, Dad. I always missed you. You were the rock in my childhood and I was lucky to have you. I will forever miss your silly chuckle, your teasing nature and your big heart. Thank you for being mine.
Sis
