We lost our beloved dad yesterday. We were on a Lake Boat Parade when I got the call from his wife of more than 29 years, Cathy. I made what might seem like an unusual choice to finish the Boat Parade before heading home to mourn. My choice makes sense if you know that dad loved boats, the water and partying. He would have liked that the Parade went on.
I wrote this letter to him less than two weeks ago. My husband, Tony, joined me, my sister, Janet, and her husband, Rob, to spend last week with him. Like Cathy told me yesterday, "He waited until you all left to go."
We love you, Dad.
Dear Dad,
When I was helping you answer your “5 Wishes” questions for
hospice, there was one you would not answer: How would you like to be
remembered? You gave a snort and said, “That’s a silly question. People
will remember me the way they want to remember me. It doesn’t matter how I want
to be remembered.”
I have thought a lot about that question and your
response. You are right (of course 😊). People
will remember us the way we live, not necessarily the way we want to be
remembered. I find now that I am regularly asking myself whether I am living
the way I want to be remembered.
Let me help you answer that question by sharing how I will
remember you.
Dad, you taught us so many things, including to have a strong
work ethic. I remember you telling me when I was fairly young, that while I
could be anything that I set my mind to, whatever I chose, I needed to work
hard at that profession. “You be a janitor, but you be the best damn janitor,”
you said. That has stuck with me.
When I tried to skate by in school, doing just enough to get a
“B” and not working to my potential, you would poke at me to prod me a long,
calling me “Old B Minus.” I got the message. There would be no “phoning it in”
or “just skating by for us.” I am grateful for that lesson.
You also taught us to take pride in our appearance. You told
us that even being poor (and we did not grow up poor, but you did), was not an
excuse to look poor. You said we should always be showered, comb our hair and
keep our nails neat. You also insisted
we iron our clothes and polish our shoes. You said that when we take pride in
our appearance, others will treat us with the respect we show ourselves. I
remembered that as I was sending your grandchildren out the door for school…I
made sure they looked combed, clean, loved.
You taught us to have a great sense of humor. You told long jokes that sucked us into the
story. You pointed out the silly in life. You made us laugh. Sometimes you were
wildly inappropriate. You have never had a censor button. I am afraid I have
inherited that!
You taught us to dance. My favorite memories of growing up
include dancing around our living room with you while you waited for mom to get
ready to go out. You would turn on that
big stereo and take turns dancing with me and Janet. You smelled good and
looked sharp. I loved dancing with my handsome daddy.
We danced as a family too.
I can remember all five of us dancing around the stereo. You and mom
would tell us to close our eyes and feel the music. As an adult, I still loved
dancing with you. You would hum the music and softly sing, especially to a
favorite like Ray Charles singing “It’s Crying Time Again.”
I will remember you as a hardworking dad who provided for his
family. You often worked six days a week—very long days. Sometimes we would
visit the stores with you. I remember puffing up with pride because you were
the big boss. My handsome dad would introduce me to everyone like I was
special. To each of your employees, you would say, “I want you to meet my
daughter, Judy.” I hear your voice, when
I take the time to show that same respect to someone. You taught me how good it
feels to be acknowledged.
When you came home from work, you wanted a few minutes alone with
your newspaper, which you did not like to be “molested” before you got to read
it. Most nights the whole family sat down to dinner together. I loved those nights where the conversation
flowed and so did the laughs. I did not love the rare time you made us eat
liver. 😊
You got up early each day and enjoyed your coffee. As I got
older and went to work at Holiday Markets, we had even more to talk about. Some
mornings, you would come into my bedroom and sit on the side of my bed slurping
your hot coffee and sharing about work—the good, the bad and Ron Wilson. I
didn’t even mind that it was 6 AM. I loved that you talked to me. The first
time Tony and I visited you and Cathy in your apartment, you came into the
guestroom and sat on the edge of the bed in your underwear and slurped your
coffee while talking to me. I loved it. I am not sure Tony did. 😊
When we were kids, you would want us to help do yard work on
your rare day off. If we tried to sleep in, you would wake us by saying that
“the flies were crawling” on us. After a few hours of yard work and washing
cars, you would ask us to ride along to the dump. We loved that, because a trip
like that with you meant a stop at Bartels' Burgers!
You will be remembered as the consummate foodie. You were a
foodie before being a foodie was even a thing. You love great food and cook
great food. We are all better cooks because of your example. We are all also
better bartenders because of your example! 😉
I also remember when you wanted to take Yachting Classes at
Shasta College. Mom was not interested
and they were couples’ classes, so I joined you. It was great to see that spark
turn into a full-on passion that took you all over the globe. Watching you make
your dreams come true still inspires me. Our family enjoyed the trip we shared
with you and Cathy to Victoria. It’s a trip we will never forget.
I will remember you as the dad who really cared and showed it
in big ways and small ways. You gave us
Easter corsages and hearts of chocolates at Valentine’s Day. You sent sweet
cards for years (I have saved them). You tried to have mom help me in Korea
when Kelsey was born by buying her plane ticket. When mom backed out, you cried
with me and told me to use the money to hire help (I did).
I have watched you morph from an “Archie Bunker” to a man who
shows love for everyone—regardless of who they love or where they are from. I
loved when you joked tonight that you would marry Sammee’s boyfriend. You have never stopped growing and learning.
You have apologized for hurtful things you have said in the past. It takes a
big man to admit when he is wrong. I have learned from your example to own my
mistakes. Thank you.
You and Cathy visited us all over the globe. Not many came to
Korea, but you did. You came to the
Netherlands and Germany too and even visited the boring places like Alabama.
When you heard that Cory and Jess were getting married quickly
in Hawaii, you jumped at the chance to join us at their tiny ceremony. You made
their day so much more special by your presence. When Kelsey (Chana) and Nimrod
were getting married, you and Cathy were among the last to finally admit you
could not attend because of COVID. Eventually, the wedding was bumped up a few
days and held in a backyard in Queens. You and Cathy still dressed up and
toasted the happy couple from your home in Florida.
Dad, you will always be remembered as a man who loved his
family. You took care of your mother and your brother (as much as he would
allow). You have taken care of all of us. You were there for us at Mom’s
memorial service. You cried with us. You showed us that just because you can’t
live with someone, doesn’t mean you don’t love them.
You showed us affection. Your dad was not there for you, yet
you knew how to be there for us. You hugged and kissed us and held our hands.
I don’t want to imagine the planet without you on it, but you
have lived life to the fullest and taught us to do the same. We know we are
loved. That is maybe the best gift you gave us.
I love you, dad. I am so proud to be your daughter.
Always,
Judy
