I sat there thinking about you and me. When I was born, you were an Air Force man, by choice, not by lottery. You were on duty the night I was born in the Vandenberg base hospital and you always told me that the nurse turned to you and said, “You’ve got yourself a Rose Bowl Queen”. I may not have achieved that royal status, but you did make me a “Sweet Briar Girl”, one of many precious gifts I could never repay. Knowledge … understanding was the thing with you. I thought about you stretched out on the floor, your favorite place, reading The Invisible Man. I thought about your fascination with Mark Twain and Ernest Hemmingway. You probably thought I never noticed what you were reading, but I did. I always did.
When the lights went off inside and they pulled slowly back onto the highway, I felt so cold inside, icy and brittle. I knew that I would shatter into a million pieces if I blinked, if my eyelashes so much as grazed each other, so I refused. I refused to allow one tear to slide past those black iron gates drawn to protect me, to save my heart. We traveled exactly 13.3 miles to the back of the hospital, the emergency entrance, without breaking the speed limit once. No sirens announced our arrival. I was fixed, steady, and prepared to take charge, knowing I was going to have to be the strong one. I let the window down and the spring breeze lifted my hair.
Involuntarily, my hand went to the radio, pushing awkwardly through the presets. Maybe I was looking for a sign from you; music had always been our thing. I fast-forwarded through your soundtrack in my mind: The Atlanta Rhythm Section, B.B. King, Al Green, Earth Wind and Fire. You loved blues and funk but enjoyed everything else as well … hell, I thought James Taylor was black until I was twelve or so. You never minded going my way though … together we had seen Rick Springfield, Bon Jovi, and so many others. I laughed a little thinking of you with tissues stuck in your ears that time you took us to see Quiet Riot. I quickly came back to the present when I saw Mom coming towards the back of the ambulance. We didn’t know that she had cancer that night and we didn’t know that she would die just a little more than a year later, but we knew she was sick, even though both of you refused to admit it.
The doors opened and I pushed my back against the seat, my arms stiff, pushing the steering wheel away like the pain I didn’t want to feel. I looked down, not wanting to see them pull you out of the ambulance, teeth clenched and trying to catch my breath. It was at that very moment that I thought I heard your voice. That voice that could be loving, welcoming, stern, or flat-out pissed off ... a man of emotion. "Don't you people have a home?" ... you'd scream from your bedroom door when we got too rowdy with our friends late at night. Or standing by the old rotary phone with your eyes closed, still half asleep, shouting orders and pointing at the piano. Without thought, my head jerked up and there you were … propped up on the gurney … oxygen mask pulled up telling everyone what to do.
“That’s my Dad”, I thought.
That night was a whirlwind of doctors and surgery, of so many friends that the hospital opened a hospitality room just for us. I wonder sometimes if you could have ever expected all those kids to be there, praying and hugging and loving each other through your terrifying ordeal. You were more than father to Brian & me … you were a father to all of them … to each one who ever needed a kind word or some sound advice. You always gave your heart to anyone who needed it, and now it was just worn out. Do you remember what you said when they wheeled you out of your surgery doped up on morphine and resurrected twice? You looked right at your son-in-law and said, “Happy Birthday, Son.”
“That’s my Dad”, I said.
That was more than a decade ago and you’re still going strong. Since then you’ve become a grandfather 5 times, seen your son return from duty overseas and discover love and his own family, and find us another mother ~ an amazing woman who loves you unconditionally and keeps you in line. You are healthy and happy and busy LIVING in your own cat-like fashion and teaching us how to live, not just to be. Keep in mind that you’ve used up several of your lives, and try to keep your sailor habit in check.
Though you’re a man of few words, the only one I know who can write an entire email on the ‘subject’ line, I know exactly where we stand, exactly who you are, but even now I’m still learning, too. I asked you last week where you were “the day the music died” and this was your reply: “Feb 3, 1959 I spent 8 hours of that day in the 7th grade at Gladys Elementary School with Vesta Walker, my teacher. That is the first woman I ever saw put a pencil under her middle finger and over the others, and squeeze until the pencil broke when she got upset. After my daily school trip, the rest of my day comprised of doing chores, studying school assignments, having dinner and sleeping. I knew very little about the music dying at that time. My Mom would watch American Bandstand and Dick Clark each afternoon so we knew a little about rock and roll. I guess it took a few more years in life to understand who Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper were and the influence that had on the music world. So Hello Baby, this is the Daddy Bopper speaking. Have a great day. Love you.” Exactly fifty years later, you have a granddaughter, my daughter, sitting in the exact same grade, as you were that day. Ain’t life something?
Happy Birthday Daddy.
I love you.
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