Dadisms II
by irms
“i can’t believe it’s been nine years.
does anything ever feel any different? can you pinpoint a difference between the third year and the fifth?
the second and the ninth?” – beth
Answer: The difference is, the number of things I remember gets smaller as I forget more and more about him. This truth feels shameful, and brings heartache. The number of things I treasure gets larger as what I do remember becomes more precious. This truth brings pride and a will to share my memory of him.
From time to time, I write about my Dad on this blog. He died on January 13th, 2003. If you didn’t have a chance to know him, well, I wish you could have. And if you did, then I hope you join me in remembering what he was like. All his obnoxious ways, all his quirky habits, how unique he really was. Sometimes I’m asked, “What was your dad like?” and to that, there’s only one correct answer, “He was super weird.”
My dad described himself as an “uneducated dirt-clod”. It’s true. He was both of those things plus uncouth, uncultured, and unconcerned with your opinion of him. In the same breath I’d tell you that he was the smartest, wisest man I’ve ever known, and I’d say the same if he weren’t related to me in any way. He was sage, he was humble, and he was a force to be reckoned with. He was a singular mix of complicated and simple, but more than anything he was the sort of person who affected lives. His influence spread out and covered people like a blanket. Not through any conscious effort of his own, it simply did. It simply was.
Some moments I miss him in a desperate way, other times I just miss him. Sometimes I’m so overcome that I need to say it out loud, as all important things are said out loud; given a moment in time, a place in the air, some molecular structure to make them real.
Some memories are more difficult than others and crop up at the oddest times. Like this: [At the grocery store, present day] I reach in to grab a little carton of fat-free milk. The smallest one, so it doesn’t go bad. I see my own hand reach into the cold storage for the carton and I’m taken back to one of the blurry days following his death, shopping for my family. I’m standing in front of the glass case at the store. I remember looking at the whole-milk jugs thinking, “One gallon or two? I guess we only need one without dad.”
Sometimes, all I do is remember the little things and hope to keep them forever:
- He was an ugly, formidable-looking man with beautiful green eyes.
- He was afraid of heights, but he’d ride the ferris wheel if we asked him to.
- He taught us: Don’t share, don’t get any.
- He thought long hair was beautiful whether on a girl or a boy.
- He’d ask my mom, “You know what?” She’d say “What?”…he’d say, “You love me.”
- He thought the best way to get over being sick was to sweat it out, so he’d bury us in blankets and wrap us up like burritos and carry us to bed.
- When we were kids and we dropped him off at work, he’d wave back at us with one hand. Then walk a little distance, turn back, put his lunchbox in his teeth, and wave with both hands. He’d walk a bit more, then turn and wave with both hands and a foot until mom was shaking her head. Looking in the car you’d see three kids waving back at him with two hands and a foot each — giggling out of control. He did it just to make us laugh and it worked every time.
- He was chopping wood the day before he died. I wasn’t there, but I can picture him doing so.
- Even though he was built like an ox, he didn’t think fighting was cool. He thought walking away was much cooler.
- He’d let us jump off the roof and catch us in his arms. (Don’t tell CPS. 🙂 )
- His favorite color was purple.
- He had a rule that if you hunt and kill an animal, you have to eat it. Hunting for any other reason is dumb.
- He used to buy those heart-shaped boxes of chocolate on Valentine’s Day. A big one for mom, smaller ones for us kids, and leave them on our beds to find after school.
- He believed you could “wire windshield wipers to a duck’s butt if you know what you’re doing”.
- He would tell people he had “good kids”, and that made us proud to be them.
We will be nine years without him on Friday. Day 1 and day 3,285 can feel heartbreakingly similar. We miss you, Dad, and thanks for everything.
P.S. I always appreciate the comments that get left on these posts. Once in a while, I go back and read them to laugh or cry or simply smile as the remark warrants. Thanks for taking the time to say something (anything). Your notes bring me comfort in unexpected ways.
You had to know I was going to write this: Dadisms II – http://t.co/7Dzy7dwc
I really enjoyed reading this. Beautiful, thanks for sharing.
Well said friend, well said.
I think I’m going to dub January 13th as the official “@irms is going to make you cry” day.
@dmpayton Sorry, man. You knew I was going to write something.
@dmpayton I just got a piece of dust in my contacts…wiping eye.
Geez Irma, I’m in a public office! Why did I read this here.
P.S. Nicely written.
I think I have to agree with your friend Nick, I am work why did I read this, knowing that I was going to bust out crying. Ugh!!!
I am so glad that you take the time and remember your dad, he remains a constant in our every day lives.
I am not exactly sure why he came to my mind today, now I know why. I heard Time in the Bottle by Jim Croche this morning, this is one of the songs he was trying to teach me how to play on Gpa’s guitar. Never could quite get it right, but it sure was fun. He never gave up, he keep telling me that I just needed the practice. Wrong, I have two left hands and I was never going to be able to play that instrument. lol
Like you, there are times I wonder if he see’s what is happening in our neck of the woods, but I have to think that he is still keeping track of all the comings and goings of his beloved children’s lives. I do know this with a certainty he would and is very proud of you all.
Love you
Irm, I love this blog. It brings back great memories that I hope we never forget. Thank you for writing it.
I had a similar experience. The morning he died, Dre, oach and Michelle loaded me in the car and were driving me home. The girls knew we were going to have a ton of people over, so we stopped at the grocery store. I was walking around with them and spotted a German chocolate cake. I lost it. I could barely stand, I had to go outside cause I knew any minute I’d be actin’ a fool. I miss him always, but Every now and again, it hurts that bad.
I too read this and cried at work. But thanks for sharing. Tears for dad turn to great memories and shared experiences. It seems like just yesterday it happened. Remembering the great man that helped one of Tron’s friends be a better person is great. He was a most amazing dad to me and he didn’t have to be. I wasn’t REALLY his but he made me feel like I was. That I belonged to him and his family and that I was loved. He cared enough to yell at me too. And looking back I appreciate that so much. He was a good man. A man that I know everyday of my life I am SO incredibly lucky and honored to have shared years of my life with.
My Olguin family is a treasure I cherish and always will.
Just like it was mentioned in a previous post, Tron is a lot like dad. I am so thankful to have my Tron-e-cakes. Just like with dad, I am truly blessed to have my tron.
Big hug to you girl.
I told you I’d read it when I was sure I’d be alone. You’re Dad’s the reason I have such great cousins to look up to. Anymore than this and we’ll both be embarrassed.