A couple of thoughts that I've been trying to organize and put down so they make sense, since my pop died...
For years I have loved Dylan Thomas's 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'. I think it was my inner angry young man, and a belief that one should never give up, but continue to fight the good fight, yada yada, and all that other psuedo-romantic crap that fills the minds of the youthful, whether that be physically or mentally.
Anyway, here it is, in it's entirety.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
So, while dad was in his decline phase for the last few months, I kept reading through this, at first cheering him on, raging against Doctors, and hospitals, misfortune, medical insurance, ad infinitum. And then in the last few weeks, and really into the last days, I would look at him in bed, and think about the last verse. And finally think. Go. Go into the good night. I love you dad, but it is time for you to go, you have raged against the dying of the light, but enough of your fevered delusional thoughts, of the battles for more breaths, the constant state of exhaustion. You have been a fine man, a great father, a loving husband, an incredible citizen of the country, and friend to anyone open to you. Go. You've earned it. I love you, I miss you, but go. And finally he went.
What follows is (give or take a little editorial license, and poor memory) the eulogy for Dad from his memorial service. Oh, and the title of this blog/post refers to a story I originally was going to tell in his eulogy, but somehow wasn't sure anyone would "get it", so edited it out. My dad was a very funny man, but sometimes you just had to be there.
On Wednesday December 21st, I lost my father. Truth is, the man I loved, and who taught me so many things over the years had really been gone months before. Through October, November, and even a day here or there in December, he still gave little peeks, but mostly he just slept, or rambled about imaginary events and happenings.
Some of his musings and observations during this period were funny, but not intentionally so, and there was a bit of guilt in chuckling about them. Mind you, I know my dad well enough to know he would have been chuckling along with us, as he possessed a rather wicked sense of humor, taking delight if someone was a little uncomfortable with a response he might have to something.
Pardon the English, but it was not beyond dad to simply "make shit up" if he thought he might get a rise out of someone. Invariably, about the time his target would start to get good and worked up, he'd shoot them a huge grin, big enough that the gold cap on his molar showed, at which point the unwitting rube would be ..."ohhh, I've just had my leg pulled to the point of coming off".
He loved a really good argument. A particular subject we would go around and around about was baseball. He would cite some unnamed experts, and insist that his view was not only the right opinion, but indeed, it was actual fact. Bear in mind the previous observation that dad would simply make...stuff up.
One of his nicknames with me, was "the world's most married man". His level of devotion to mom was astonishing. They met in 1957 at a St.Patrick's Day dance, in the small market town of Market Harborough, under the eaves of an ancient grammar school. Some 50 years later, the romantic old sod still had the ticket. He always liked to tell the story of their meeting, and give it a slightly more macho twist over the years, but the truth is, she had him hook line and sinker from the outset. A gangly, jug-eared American country boy, meeting a petite blonde hottie with her charming accent. Frankly, the boy never stood a chance, and in conversation over the years, he admitted it. 54 years later, he still never stood a chance, but he never regretted a moment of it. I would try and tease him about it, asking why a good looking woman like Jennifer Dunkley wanted to go out with a guy with ears so big, he looked like a car coming down the road with both doors open, but it was pointless. He'd just grin, and admit "yep, I never figured out what she saw in a doofus like me either, but I'm sure glad she did".
He came from a large family, and left school to join the Air Force, which became his first career. He stayed in for 21 years, and then because he enjoyed working for the government so much, he put in 20 with the state of Missouri.
Some of you might notice a theme here. One woman, 54 years, two jobs of note, 20 plus years each. Dad believed in sticking to things.
And that sticking to things extended to the kids. While he was never shy about telling us we were loved, and making sure we knew it, he wasn't shy about letting us know when we had steered off the proper path. Nothing was worse than the head shake of disappointment, when you had very clearly made the wrong choice, or pursued the wrong course of action. Dad worked in guilt the way Michelangelo worked in marble. A true artist. Oh, and one of his favorite guilt lines-and a beaut. "Your mother will be very disappointed". Or "Your mother was worried about you". Both of these lines translated as "I" am disappointed, and "I" was worried about you. A master at manipulation!
But mostly what I think of when I think of dad, was he was a great teacher. He taught me to have a moral center. Not that I appreciated it as a rebelling teenager, that just KNEW that the old man didn't have a clue.
But moving into adulthood, whereas I didn't follow him on his spiritual journey, I certainly learned right from wrong.
Just because something is easier, or explainable, or justifiable, doesn't mean it is right. "Do the right thing, son. You know what it is." If that means giving to someone who has less than you, when you don't have much yourself, you do it. It doesn't make you a saint, it doesn't make people go "oh wow, how great you are", but you do it because it is the right thing. And the right thing is the only thing.
He gave to charities, he handed out money to beggars on the street, and he would look them in the eye when he did it. Told me it made them feel human, rather than a piece of doggerel not worth looking at.
Anyway, I rambled though all that to get to this.
The most important thing I learned from Dad was a lesson that took a very long time to take root. Love. I can't tell you how many years he would end every visit or phone call with "I love you, son", and receive a "Yeah, ok-talk to you later" from me. But he kept doing it. And slowly it crept into this thick skull that 'wow, he really means it'. So I started responding in kind. At first it was awkward. Kind of a "Yeah, sure dad. uhh...love you too" type thing. And then I started realizing, damn. I do love this man. This oh so not average guy that has put every ounce of his being into this family. And then it would choke me up to say it as he got older, more frail... everytime, realizing that was one less time I would see him, and one less time I would get to tell him how I felt.
So, I want to close with two things. One, Dad-I love you, and I miss you horribly. Two, and this is absolutely the last word on the subject, Skip Schumaker is never going to be a gold glove second basemen.
