My father's daughter

Today my father would be 79 years old. I had him in my life for 36 of my years. He was 36 when I was born (well, until he turned 37 later that same month). I never thought about that until just now-- I was the same age when he died as he was when I came to be. I tend to look for significance in such things. We can force significance out of almost any 'coincidence' if we try. Why do we need 'coincidence' to create meaning? That is a question for another time.

Tonight I was thinking about how much of who I am came from growing up with him as my father. Better and worse, in theory, but on his birthday I prefer to consider the 'better' part. Which I also consider the bigger part.

For most of my life I would have said my dad (it feels like I should say father, but I never called him father. Or daddy. He was dad) was the smartest person I knew. I guess I wouldn't say that anymore. As much as anything that's because I've learned that calling anyone the "____est" does nothing but invite challenge and unyielding comparison. But when I was a young girl and young woman, he was IT. I didn't idolize him for his intelligence. But I was grateful for it. My dad wasn't the 'cool' dad and he definitely wasn't the 'modern' dad. But he was the smartest dad. And that counted for a lot. It may be because of him that I'm such a sucker for brainpower.

But smarts is the obvious legacy. Tonight I'm thinking of other things.

My father loved music. Loved it. But was the only one in our household who did not play an instrument. I never thought to ask him why. But music filled my life. From The Nutcracker to Benny Goodman to Roger Miller. But not rock and roll. My father graduated college in 1957. He was on the cusp of big band and rockabilly. He chose big band. The closest he came to rock and roll was Joan Baez and Herb Alpert. In other words, not very close at all. But he bought my sister Teresa albums by Pat Benatar ("she could be an opera singer if she wanted," he said). And he bought me the saxophone I started asking for after watching Sha Na Na on Saturday nights. And he danced the polka with my mother in the kitchen and with his daughters at wedding receptions. And one of the last moments of connection we ever had, after dementia had robbed him of almost all of his awareness, was me singing "Ave Maria" to him in his room at the nursing home and having him turn to me and say "that was good." A three word sentence. Perhaps the only coherent one he spoke that entire visit. That is the power of music that he shared with me.

My father also loved nature. And he was either selfish or prescient enough (or both) to force his children to accompany him on more hikes than I wanted. I didn't appreciate it then. But how I treasure it now. I feel closest to my dad's memory in the woods. He loved the woods in every season, and in a special way in winter when the limbs were bare. They appealed to him visually. He took more photos of winter trees than any other. And he was fearless. Twice we hiked Mt. Baker in Saranac Lake: 900' ascent in .9 miles. Me gingerly finding my footing on the steep trail; him bounding along like a mountain goat, in his late 60's and with bad feet. As his dementia progressed, along with his response to music, a walk at the old growth forest a few miles from our house was where he seemed most himself. My mother loved the sun. I get that from her. But my father took me to nature. It is him I likely have to thank for my summer in Montana. He reveled in God's wild creation. And I eventually came to revel in it too.

My father truly believed that, at least in sports, it wasn't whether you won or lost, it was how you played the game. It was that you had fun. And he was a good athlete. Successful as a boy. But he was passionate on this point. He came to my softball and basketball games. But only to watch. Not to scream. Perhaps not even to cheer. Or if to cheer, it would be as likely for a stellar play by the opposition as for me. And the only time I recall my dad ever confronting an adult on behalf of one of his children was when some kid's father got in my teenage brother Paul's face when he was umpiring a little league game. My dad was having none of it. I sat paralyzed with embarrassment but also proud as he stood between his son and this screaming man and put him firmly, ferociously in his place. "This game is for fun! You are not going to yell at my son. This is just a game!" For the same reason, he supported me fully when I dropped basketball my freshman year of high school because of all of the restrictions they required (no ice skating, no sled-riding, no missing more than 2 practices). It made no sense to him. The game is supposed to be fun. Indeed.

My father believed in speaking (his) truth. Even when he knew it wouldn't be popular. I always knew this about him, and yet I was still somewhat taken aback at his funeral when several of his work colleagues mentioned that he was known at his job (where he worked 40 years) for speaking his mind, popular opinion or not. Luckily, as least from their description, he normally turned out to be right. He exhibited the same commitment to forthrightness while serving on the Parish Council. It is his voice I have heard internally when I have struggled to determine when to speak up and when to back down professionally. Even with a wife and nine children depending solely on his income, his integrity would not be compromised. I don't know that any of us kids followed a career path he would have suggested, but one of the greatest signs of respect he ever shared with me about his children is when he said, with considerable pride, how much he admired the integrity each of us showed in our work. That meant more to him than our actual jobs. And him saying that to me meant more than he could ever have guessed.

If I do not end this now, it will no longer be his birthday when I do. And I don't want that. There is more to say, but I have more time to say it. And I will.