Our Table

My friend sent me a diversity calendar...and this is the month of August's picture and story. I read them every month and just got to August yesterday and this one hit home. While describing all the room at Marnita's table, I could only think of my dad's service. The actual quote above left me feeling like I had been punched. When he left, one of his dear friends spoke of him at his service, mostly about my dad's contributions to gays and lesbians-and their loved ones-in his church. This man used a line that stays with me always and it went, he "was a caterer who did not want anyone to be missing from our table. " My dad....

Hall of Fame

Yesterday, Art Monk and Darrell Green were inducted into the Hall of Fame.  If my dad was here, it's possible he and I would have headed out to Ohio just to see it all go down.  They both were representative of the great Skins years....and the years that he and I both loved. Throughout the day yesterday, my mind went to the pre-season game my dad and I went to at RFK in 1994.  Art Monk had been traded to the NY Jets, and was on his way to a record-setting season. I remember we were sitting behind an end zone, and Art Monk scored a touchdown against us...me and my dad, and all the other fans stood and cheered.  I don't even remember who won the game.  I really just remember being there with my dad, and Art Monk's TD.  

Just Enough

It was a drive filled with thoughts of my dad.  Here, I passed by a Panera truck.  Normally, I would not think to take a picture, but when I caught a glimpse of the side, I had to.  He loved Panera.  He would go there all the time.  He used to tell me, "a cup of soup, and half a sandwich, it's just enough."  He would tell me that over and over...and then I went with him one time.  He indeed just ordered the half-sandwich and soup-but of course he also got a cookie.  I can picture me sitting across from him like it was yesterday, saying " so evidently, soup, a half sandwich AND a cookie is just enough."  He laughed and laughed, and made some meager defense like "well they made them fresh, so someone's got to eat them."  Life is just not the same without him around.

Filing Systems OTR

Driving down the road, my thoughts always always turn to him.  He was a great road-tripper, and I clearly get my road-tripping genes from him.  Today, driving down to North Carolina, I randomly started thinking about the Instant Whip truck I had taken a picture of for "Filing Systems."  Then I started to think about the linen company that had orange and white checkers. I have seen the trucks around town and have never been able to snap a shot.  I started thinking about the people that he worked with, so loyally for so many years, and how he interacted with so many people.  Some knew how wonderful he was, but some-like Instant Whip-might not have ever known they were dealing with one of the most upstanding people they will encounter.  Anyway, not 15 minutes later, this truck appears on the highway.  As I approached, I realized, it is a linen company, and the truck and "graphic" is exactly the same.....it's just "tarheel" instead of DC.   He really shows up to me everywhere.

Him Beams 2

Really, it seems like I see these beautiful skies and sunbeams more often these days.  Maybe it's just my change in perspective, I don't know.  Regardless, tonight walking home, here was yet another wonderful strong set of sunbeams shining down.  On nights like these, I just see this and wonder, is he at peace?  I want to revel in the soft warmth of these beams, but instead I continue on wondering if I can ever fully deal with the permanence of his departure.   

Happy Birthday Daddy

 Today is my dad's 77th birthday.  I was inspired by my girlfriend who lost her mom, far too soon.  She takes herself out to dinner to celebrate her mom's birthday.  I decided to do the same thing.  I picked Chef Geoff's because my dad loved this place.  In the last 3 years of his life, he always wanted to go there to eat when we got together.  My birthday, his birthday,  Mother's Day-whatever.  I didn't like the place because I thought the service was jacked, and the food over-rated.  But as I've said, the man was easy to please.  I think in hindsight he liked it for two reasons:  the coconut ice cream and my girlfriend, who he adored, loved their shrimp and grits.  That was kind of all it would take for him to dig on a place.  Anyway, tonight the service was amazingly good, and the food was exceptionally good.  I even ordered coconut ice cream to go. However, I cannot pretend that I do not profoundly miss the hug we would have had, and the phone call with him, that would have gone like this:

Me:  "Happy birthday daddy!"

Dad:  "Yeah, thank you honey."

Me:  "How does it feel being 77?"

Dad:  "It feels just great."

Happy birthday daddy.  Miss you tons.

Fuck Cancer

When he got sick he was completely determined to treat it, fight it, and live with it.  He wanted to get the treatment he needed but continue to live his life, as regularly as possible.  He would say to the doctor during conversations about chemo "can I continue to work, like Tony Snow?" Even at 75, with late-stage cancer, he still wanted to be able to work-what a man.  At the time, Tony Snow was battling his second round with cancer, and needing chemo, all the while continuing in his high pressure job.  He was a source of inspiration for my dad, even though he (and I) couldn't disagree with him more politically and professionally.  But cancer eliminates those barriers that separate us.  At the time, I just wanted my dad to be able to work, and live, as Tony Snow had been doing.  Now I would just settle for live.  Yesterday, Tony Snow died, leaving behind three young kids, and a wife.  My heart hurts for his family.    I know my dad doesn't take kindly to this news, I can see him shaking his head, his mouth pulling to the side, making an audible sound-as if to say, "shucks."   

Repeating History

Back in the day, he lived in town.  So did my Godfather.  They both used to shop for their alcohol from one place in particular.....it was Pearson's.  It was probably at least a year after I lived in town and was frequenting Pearson's that I realized it was his ol' stomping grounds. Since learning that, I always took some measure of pride of being a second generation customer.  I still do, it's just different now....every time I walk in I think of him, and it hurts. And I walk in frequently.

Clouds in Heaven

When I saw these clouds, I thought of him.  I knew why, but I was having a hard time finding the words to write it, until I found what I wrote to him in my journal on 12/18/2007:

"Dear Daddy,

Back when I was younger, I pictured the after life as a spot on a big, puffy cloud.  I would look up at the sky and see a cloud and think "one day that will be my spot."  With that "spot" came the ability to look over my friends & family-keeping tabs on them.  Can you see me?  Are you with me?  I would feel some sense of comfort if I knew you were here in some way, however different it may be from how I want you here.  Sometimes I feel you pushing me along-or coming in my dream to ask me the question, "what about me is the same?"  Perhaps you leaving will be what teaches me to have faith?  Faith that although unseen you are still here somehow, guiding me, giving me help, showing me answers to some pretty dark questions, and just keeping tabs on me.  So if you can, stay near me."  

So that is what it is, when I see the crisp, puffy clouds that look so heavenly to me.....I see him in my naive image of after-life, and he seems nearby.

17th & K

For a period of time, he worked downtown with my mom.  Whenever I drove past this part of town with them, they would both sort of drop whatever we had been talking about to search about for "their corner" or "their building" or "their park" (pictured above).  Of course, this would be some 35 years later (give or take) and they still both needed to spot their "old haunts."  He really loved my mom.

In the last year of his life, I was working downtown at 21st & K.  My sister was working at 17th & K (when east side).  Small small word.