His philosophies about life linger as well--some of which I agreed with, some of which I didn't. Let me tell you about a few of the ones I agreed with. He had this theory that used to crack me up. He said that the system was fine; it was the people who screwed it up. He never had a lot of money, but he rarely passed up the red kettle at Christmas. He thought that if you had a couple of extras dollars in your pocket that you owed it to people to help. He also had this belief that you shouldn't laugh at other people--even if the situation warranted it.
One time, when I was in my teens, he took me and one of my friends golfing. My friend was athletic but he'd never golfed before. I wasn't exactly Jack Nicklaus either, but I was able to make contact with the ball, and that was always a good thing. Well, this friend of mine made contact off the first tee. He sized up his next shot, probably using a three wood, and he swung and missed. I started to giggle a little. Then he swung and missed again. I giggled some more and Dad noticed it. We were sitting in the golf cart next to each other. He looked over at me and shook his head. After my friend finally made contact and got into his cart, Dad said, "Don't laugh at people, son." I can't say that I've always adhered to what he said, but it has always stuck with me.
Here's one of my favorite pictures of him:
Dad became a computer person later in his life. He loved everything about them. He kept in touch via email, although he still seemed to prefer letters. He tore computers apart and put them back together again. He became somewhat of a computer expert, helping friends to get their first computers, and then helping them to learn how to work them. Unfortunately, he died in 2000--before smart phones came along, and before GPS and Wi-Fi. He would be amazed at the technology we have available today. And I suspect he'd be using it for all it's worth.
I think about these things often, but especially on his birthday, wishing I had one more chance to spend a day with him. To hear his voice. To catch his wisdom. And to see his eyes stare back into mine. His eyes spoke. You could tell if he was in pain or if he felt for you or if he was angry. All you had to do was look into his eyes.
Anyway, I'd like to have one more nice long conversation with him. He'd ask me what was going on in my life. He'd listen, offer a little advice, and then let silence have its way with us. I'd ask him about his life and he'd tell me that he was fine even though his eyes would probably tell me something different. Silence would do its thing again. Then we'd talk politics. I'm sure of it.
But of course, one day wouldn't be long enough. I'd still be left with the memories after that day was over--many of the same memories that I grasp on to today. And while they are never enough, they seem to contain enough power to sustain a person.
