I Miss My Dad

I originally wrote this on June 14, 2001 and it was printed in the newspaper I write for along with this picture.
This piece was on my mind this weekend as the uncle I reference near the end is being operated on
today after doctors found last week he has a brain tumor.

I miss my father.

There were times when I thought I would never miss this overbearing, pushy, sometimes rude man.

Sure, he was sometimes fun to be around. Who wouldn't love a quirky father who would stop in a busy intersection to pick up aluminum cans or thrown away magazines? Or insist that each family member order something different at a restaurant so we can more adequately explore the joint's offerings? Or steal crackers from the table so we could be sure to have snacks later? The result was that at home we'd have a box of stolen crackers and would never need to buy crackers.

He had a curious mind, and if there was something he didn't understand, he would get books from the library to figure them out. He read five newspapers daily and compared them - or at least he'd buy them and put them on a trampoline that served as a temporary newspaper stand.

He'd pass on jokes he heard, and hearing him laugh was at times infectious.

And dad would never walk away when talking to you. He'd listen, and while he may be unresponsive and snort at inopportune times, he would not totally ignore you.

But that was not enough for me, though it may have been for less-demanding children.
Still I wanted more - more love, more affection, more attempts at saying "I love you" or "I am proud of you."

Friends and relatives said people of his generation, especially veterans like him, couldn't say those words. But I rejected that theory.

When he started to die of skin cancer, he went to the library and took out numerous books so he could better understand the present and future problems, and challenges of his failing body.

Using knowledge and experience from his lifelong engineering profession, his work as a professor and his hobby of pushing his body to its limits by running marathons, he vowed until the end that he would fight and defeat the cancer.

We became closer. I began calling him more often and talking about our lives. He surprised me a few times. One day when I was about 28 he called me out of the blue - it was the first time my dad had ever called me.

Another time he e-mailed me to ask for advice on how to deal with a journalist who wanted to interview him. The suggestion that I now had information he wanted me to bestow on him - blew me away. Maybe he was proud of me after all?

I was with him in his final days. He told me he adopted a theme song to repeat endlessly while he tried to win the biggest fight of his life.

Soon tubes were placed down his throat and I imagined he was still singing that song in his mind.

I forgot what the song was but I've not forgotten dad.

As he died I realized he would never say those words I wanted to hear.

But at his funeral I met his younger brother, who told me that dad would call my uncle and speak admiringly of me and tell him how proud he was of me.

Much of my frustration and anger at dad went away in the months after hearing my uncle's words, dealing with dad's death and working through grief. They were replaced by realizations that he wasn't such a bad guy after all.

While I was struggling to avoid his bad habits, I was also picking up some of his good ones, such as patience, perseverance and humility.

His life leaves a permanent mark on me. And while I used to think otherwise, that's not a bad mark to have.

Dad's birthday is April 25. Happy birthday, Dad.

And happy Father's Day, too.

I picture you up there in heaven right now, sitting in a comfortable chair, watching the University of Michigan Wolverines trounce another college while you sit, relaxed, reading newspapers and magazines.

Maybe you even get this newspaper, too. I sure hope so.

You've left this earth but not my mind.

Uncle Ernie was the same as my dad - he could say those words about his children to other relatives but not to his children. I made him promise to tell his children he loved them and he did.

You should, too.

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