My father was a good man.
You’ll notice that I didn’t say he was a great man, which I think is generally called for at times like this. I deliberately chose the word "good" because my father didn’t really aspire to abstract, lofty goals, guided by philosophical outcomes, all of which might necessitate more poetic language. He was extremely non-rhetorical, as well as no-nonsense. And for his pragmatism, and his focus on problem-solving, I will be eternally grateful, because during my childhood, I think he put his family on his back, including myself, and carried us through our most difficult times.
As a result of all of this, my thoughts on his passing will reflect this pragmatism, as I set out to describe this very good man.
My relationship with my father was complicated. I wish I could say that it was simple but it wasn’t. I can’t really even say that we understood each other and largely, I think we didn’t. And I feel like this was kind of a missed opportunity and maybe one that reminds me that for the people around me, I should make an extra effort to try to understand them, and to be understood, before it’s too late.
I’m not convinced my father ever really saw me for who I was or for what I was. From what I can tell, I think I existed mainly as a conception in his mind: a mental construct of what he wanted me to be, or perhaps what he wanted to see. I do, however, believe that my father's perceptions were rooted in a truly profound sense of optimism.
He wanted to see the best in people, and he wanted to see the best in me, so even if I was upset or angry or insecure, he could never see any of those things because he was too busy looking for the silver lining, the most optimistic interpretation, the conception of me that existed inside of him. I think his optimism served an incredibly pragmatic purpose[1]. It was what kept him going when times were really hard. It’s probably good that he had this propensity to only see the good parts because I think it was kind of a matter of survival, and I think it’s what likely allowed him to endure really difficult times and still keep going; to still keep providing for us.
And this he did. So many of the great things from my childhood were provided by my father, beginning with Big Wheels to ride, a sandpile to play in at the top of our driveway, trips to McDonald's for caramel sundaes after going 0-10 in Dedham Youth Soccer[2], and annual camping trips to Sebago Lake in Maine. This was all him.
I do have one specific memory I'd like to share, because it's so emblematic of how I remember my father:
He drove up at around 6:30pm and man did he look tired! I think "exhausted", "depleted", and "hollowed-out" are all more apt terms here. My guess was that traffic on 95 was a nightmare, his job was difficult, and he had obviously had a very long day.
Before he could get inside, I asked him if he could give me a hand. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he really didn't want to. He wanted to go inside, change into more comfortable clothes, and sit at his desk for a bit to unwind from the day, and have dinner.
So I waited, and twenty minutes later he comes strolling out in what could only charitably be called his "work clothes". They were rags[3], particularly the shirt, which was sleeveless and looked like it had washed up on an ocean shore after a few years at sea. It was so threadbare it was transparent.
He asked me how he could help, and together we quickly and efficiently lifted the cylinder head and gently rested it on top of the engine block.
He asked me if I needed anything else and I told him no, and just like that, off he went, back inside, to change again, and finally relax, but more likely, to solve another problem.
No rhetorical excuses about how hard he had worked that day and how he deserved a chance to relax. No mention of his own concerns and needs. No excuses. He offered up raw, unadulterated effort to assist me in getting the job done.
A few years ago, I gave a short speech at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and in that speech I devoted 1/3rd of it to him. Here's a video of the speech, which should download when clicked. (My comments on my father begin at 4:30 in the video.)
I saw him start to tear up during the speech, and seeing him cry was exceedingly rare, so I knew I had said some of the right things. And in hindsight, I'm glad he had a chance to hear these things from me before it was too late.
Because now it's too late. Too late to thank him for getting me through my childhood. And too late to tell him how much I appreciated his help with the cylinder head. And too late to celebrate the good in him: his pragmatism, his focus, and how incredibly hard he worked on behalf of his family.
And I'm fairly certain that, were my father able to advise me right now[4], he would maintain his pragmatic consistency and tell me to get back to life: to work hard, to provide for my own children, to continue hiking and trail running, and not to worry too much about him, as he died knowing he was a very lucky man who lived a very good life.
