Yahrzeit

Before you ask, no … I’m not Jewish. But observant Jews have a custom of lighting a candle on the anniversary of the death of a loved one. It’s a way to remember them. Think about them.

Reflect on their lives.

Today is the 25th anniversary of my father’s death. And, while I don’t usually dwell on such things, I do have a tendency to remember these days. This one is particularly filled, as I have now had as many years without my dad as I did with. There’s a sting in that which cannot be ignored.

If I had to sum up what it is I managed to glean from him in the 24 years I had, I’d have to say “I’m not sure.”

Did he love life? I’m not sure. I hope to think so, but … I’m not certain.

My dad wasn’t a particularly demonstrative guy. He had quite a few opportunities to be effusive, but he never completely took advantage of them. He did, however, have a wicked sense of humor. He knew what was funny. But he rarely laughed. When he did, it wasn’t audible. He’d kind of hunch up his shoulders and look a little sheepish and bounce a little. He was, by many accounts, and with all my memory … a serious man. He was particularly kind to strangers. And relations. I remember once explaining how he was sullen most of the time and my cousin said, “Really? Uncle Bob? The gracious host?” And I’d say “Yes. Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob is a great guy. Father Bob is … well, an enigma.

But you know? I think after 25 years, I’m allowed to say I *think* that was by design.

I think almost everyone else knew my dad better than I did. And I miss that feeling. Especially on days like today. I miss thinking I need to ask my sister to ask for whatever it is I want him to give us, or do for us. I miss having my mom speak about him … his feelings … to me while he was in the room. Sometimes sitting right next to me. She’d say “Your father doesn’t think that’s a good idea.” And he’d be sitting right there … working a crossword.

I had occasion to become pretty close to my grandmother before she died. She outlived Dad by four or five years. I would go to her apartment and visit her on Tuesdays, during my lunch hour at MCT. We’d discuss her kids, she let me know how each was doing. We didn’t really bring up Dad, or my aunt Lola. Both had passed away before her. Gramma was 74 when I was born, and well into her nineties when my parents died. One Tuesday we got to talking about Dad, though. I remember it was cold outside, maybe it was the weather that started the discussion. Dad had a hard time in the cold. His war injuries would bug him. Or maybe Gramma asked me how I was doing, and maybe, for a lark, I answered “Poorly, poorly,” the way my father always had. I don’t remember how we got started, but I remember confessing to her that I really didn’t know him very much, and I always kind of got the sense that, although he was proud of me, he didn’t really like me. I imagine she scoffed at that. She could scoff, my grandmother. If she thought you weren’t paying attention, she’d scoff under her breath.

At any rate, I remember we were sitting at her table, drinking tea. She looked down at her hands and ran them across the table, like she was smoothing out a table cloth that wasn’t there. And she looked at me over the top of her glasses and said, “He drank too much, you know, your father.” I got the sense she was ashamed of that.

“I know,” I said, “but he gave it up toward the end.” She kind of scowled at that. She was a kind person, but she could scoff and scowl, that’s for sure.

“What was he like with his father?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. Walt didn’t have a lot to do with the kids,” she said. “Except Fern. He loved Fern like the Dickens.” She referred to my aunt Fern, my father’s younger sister.

We sat for awhile in silence. Both of us given to long spells of just sitting in the quiet. Then she said, “You know your dad gave the commencement address at his high school graduation?” I did not. “Walt came home from work and I told him he should go see Bob speak, but he didn’t go,” she said. (Of course, I concluded that she didn’t go either, which probably made sense at the time, but in retrospect not so much.)

“Why not?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I never brought it up. I never thought about it until just now,” she said.

I remember thinking, Yeah, well … that acorn doesn’t fall very far from the tree. The wounds of the deaths of both my parents were probably still pretty fresh at the time.

But on days like today, I remember all the piano recitals, the band concerts, the football games, the church solos, the three (and only three) wrestling matches. The choir performances. The plays, the musicals, the children’s shows. I remember him sitting up with me when I was sick, driving me to the movies, driving me to the bus for speech meets and band festivals, teaching me how to drive myself to these places (“You can drive a little faster, you know … it won’t kill you to at least go the speed limit. You need to trust the department of transportation to know what’s safe.”) He taught me how to cook. He taught me now to keep books. Write checks, mow the lawn. Replace window panes. Do my multiplication tables. Take pictures. Change the oil. Change a flat tire. Check the spark plugs.

He taught me how to carve willow whistles.

By God, he was a pretty good dad. And I miss him every day, with every breath. How he would have marvelled at the way things turned out.