Dad would’ve been 89 years old today. Instead, his physical remains have been residing on a hill in the cemetery for 23 years. He’s been gone almost a quarter of a century! While his physical remains; (the ashes commemorated on Ash Wednesday) are buried in Tomah, what remains of him is far more potent and alive and tangible then what was put to rest in that cemetery.
What remains is the memory of dad‘s big warm hugs when we came through the door after a long trip.
What remains is remembering his singing voice as he harmonized with happy birthday and the other familiar songs he and mom used to sing for us when we were on long car rides. (They really weren’t long car rides but with 14 people in the car, 30 minutes felt like eight hours.)
What remains is recalling him and I sitting in the living room with Simon and Garfunkel‘s LP record album “Dangling Conversations” playing on the high fidelity stereo system. Back then we couldn’t look up the lyrics and they weren’t included with the record, so dad and I sat there writing down the words as we listened to the songs because we were so enthralled with the poetry of their music. Dad would’ve loved Leonard Cohen.
What remains is the image of him flooding the bottom of our yard so we could ice skate in the winter.
What remains is the memory of him sitting next to my bed after Chelsea was born listening to me spill my guts about all the secrets I carried inside overcome with emotion as I awakened into a presence that we called God.
What remains is remembering carrying Rachel, as a newborn, eight days old, into the house on Highway 16 and handing him his first grandchild as a birthday gift in 1973.
What remains is the image of him lugging buckets of water to the trees he planted so lovingly. (Andy has described his attire while doing so.)
...Snapping his fingers, whistling and smiling when he heard a catchy tune.
...The way he would wrap mom up inside his winter coat when he got home after a long day.
...Standing at the dental chair holding an impression in someone’s mouth waiting for it to set with the backdrop of Tomah’s Main Street (Gasoline Alley) out the window behind him.
Then there are our many philosophical conversations and arguments about a myriad of subjects, most of them pertaining to spiritual and social justice.
After he died, I gathered some of his journals and found myself heartbroken over the way he described how he should feel; the lectures he gave himself about how he should think and feel and be rather then spilling out how he truly felt.
And there are the letters he wrote to his parents and sister pleading with them to explain what he needed to do to mend the rift that had cropped up between them.
He wasn’t an easy man. He was a human being doing his very best to be the person his God wanted him to be. And that’s what he taught all of us in his own unique way.
He was a man with his own share of particular cracks. Cracks that may have looked like flaws to others but allowed the light to get in. They were his and they made him who he was.
What remains is the image of all six of my brothers, his sons, carrying his casket into St. Mary’s Church. Two of those sons have now joined him.
I feel immeasurably fortunate to say he was my father and to know that his blood courses through my veins and is part of my family’s heritage. I was lucky enough to know him physically for 40 years. Since then, I have connected with his memory and his invisible presence.
An invisible river remains. Each and every one of us--those who exist physically on earth and those who do not--feed into this invisible river. It contains our blood, our joys, our tears, our memories, our love. It is our inheritance and our legacy.
I write this memorial as I walk my favorite path, a path he would have loved on what would’ve been his 89th birthday. Pieces of him go with me as memories tucked away in pockets of my mind. There is no possible way to reduce my relationship with my father to some words on the page, yet, I do as a way to honor him and what remains of his presence knowing it’s only the very tip of the hidden treasure.
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