In memorial. It has been a year. And though it has certainly gotten easier, it still seems surreal at times. Raise a glass for the old man; and to your old man, too. Cheers.
Originally published, August 20, 2020.
As many of you now know, my father suffered a head injury due to an apparent fall Monday afternoon and my mother and I were with him in the hospital when he passed Tuesday morning. It was, for me, an experience of a lifetime. Now that I have witnessed seeing a parent pass, I feel it is something everyone should experience, while also something I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Wrenching as it was, it seems to be fundamentally human—him dying a natural death and your being there for a loved one. It is likely the way it had been in generations past–but something randomly, and maybe seldom experienced, today. I am not suggesting anyone run out and look for the opportunity…but when the time comes, like so many before you, I guarantee, it will change your perspective forever.
Looking back, when I think on my dad–beyond his near three decades with HEB or his equivalent and simultaneous time cutting yards for extra money–when I think on the special qualities that made him Joe, I think on his sincerity and his kindness to others: he had a true empathy, an existence without pretension–one so wholly a part of his nature that a stranger was at ease by the second sentence and likely engrossed in the simplicity of exchange and conversation.
And, I think of his sense of humor. He could be really funny, and he loved a good laugh. I specifically remember on two separate occasions when he came home from watching two movies with my mother and his attempts to describe moments in each– Beverly Hills Cop (1984) and National Lampoon’s Vacation (1983)–he could barely get his words out without laughing. In “Vacation”, Aunt Edna on the roof of the car and the dog leash on the back bumper—he could barely breath as he described it back to us.
Or hamming it up: we were at a family pool party at the Tanglewood pool in Victoria years ago when he decided to jump off the diving board in the deep end after much encouragement from some of my uncles. He, and they, had been drinking a bit; they were reassuring him that he would be fine and that they would be waiting to fish him out of the water if their assistance was necessary. Ya see, dad couldn’t swim. He leaped…and sunk strait to the bottom. Now newly minted lifeguards, it took all of them to bring him to the surface.
And his sayings: “Ya know, you’re about as funny as a fart in a space suit”, was one of his favorite condescensions when my brother or I THOUGHT we were being funny…but he didn’t quite see the hilarity in the moment.
And Carson. Johnny Carson: Decades ago, my dad looked and inadvertently acted like Johnny Carson, with a similar face and a self-deprecating humor very much in common with the king of late night. Staying up late and watching Johnny’s opening monologue with dad was a goal for me each weeknight; as the time approached, I’d wonder if he’d make me go to bed or if I’d get to see at least a few minutes. Carson was simply a treat; waiting to hear and see my father’s response to a specific joke, one that I knew would get him, made it that much better.
But his humor didn’t make him wealthy; his riches took little accounting. He would surely note that his accomplishments weren’t many. He wasn’t a banker or financier; a doctor or a lawyer. He wasn’t even a small business owner anymore–a personal failing to him and something I know stayed with him his whole life. After I was born, circumstances forced him to sell the family grocery store, resigning him to work for another grocer the remainder of his career. To him, that’s disappointment.
I, too, knew something of disappointment. Throughout my adult life, I craved his guidance and direction but he had little to share or give. He often spoke in generalities and routinely said, “just do the opposite of everything I did and you will be fine.” [What the hell is that, I wondered?] This, of course, wasn’t what I was aiming for, for it didn’t tell me what I SHOULD DO in the moment. Admittedly, a resentment resided in me for decades concerning this matter and how life became such a solitary struggle for me.
Yet, in this moment, but sadly after his death–as a father and self-employed person myself—I naturally see things a little more clearly today. His advice was simple, and universal: learn from his mistakes, be true to yourself, and be a good person. Basic but pretty solid advice; at 47, it took his death to help me recognize it.
In the end, and to the end, he was simply a good man. Nowadays, this fundamental thing may be more valuable than I had ever believed, or had known, before.
Insight. Awareness. Understanding. darren etlinger 