My Dad
On July 22, 2004, my Dad passed away after a long and bitter battle with cancer. I miss him every day. So very much. But I don't want the memory of Dad's struggle with life and death to be what I remember most vividly. So this is my attempt to remember and honor Dad; the man who filled my life with laugher, tears, frustration, and tenderness. Oh yeah, and this is my Dad, the man who called me "Stinky."
My Dad was a bit of a party animal in his day. Yes, indeedy. Dad was known for having the best dirty jokes, the best singing voice, and the best tolerance for a whiskey sour that you could find in any of the bars in Manheim. His often-stated and dearest desire was to grow old enough to be a "dirty old man." It's true. That was the sum total of his ambition. He made it, too.
Fathering two sons who didn't seem to want to be the "Good Sons" (meaning liquor-guzzling, dirty joke-loving, bar sitters) left Dad with only one option. Corrupt the girl child. And so began my journey into a world where I could comfortably ask any stranger to "pull my finger," tell tawdry jokes without batting an eyelash (even if I DIDN'T understand them), and where I could easily drink double my weight in alcohol while STILL being able to belt out the words to "The Lonely Goatherd" from the Sound of Music, while standing and balancing on a bar stool, no less! I became (much to Mom's horror) "The Good Son." And it was good.
UNTIL I had a child of my own.
In one giant "ooomph" of my uterus, I was forever changed in my dad's eyes from "My Boy" to "Oh My Gosh! She's a Girl and She Squirted out a Baby Girl JUST for Me!" My role as Dad's bar companion was about to change drastically, I learned. I became "The Sacred Vessel" from which more adorable babies might mysteriously spring forth!
Anyway, as the Sacred Vessel AND the mother of "My Granddaughter" I was lovingly, but firmly told that my presence at the weekly "Boys Night Out After Bowling" was no longer required. Nor was I supposed to repeat my portfolio of dirty jokes ANYWHERE near "My Granddaughter," and worst of all, I had to start being...ugh...RESPONSIBLE! For the foreseeable future my lot in life was to be Sesame Street, Dr. Seuss, and apple juice only.
You know what the biggest change was, though? I became a GIRL in his eyes. I mean, *I* always suspected that I was one anyway, but when a baby comes torpedoing out of you, there's not much hope of pretending anymore, is there? And now Dad was doing GIRL things for me. Buying me flowers. Getting all sappy when he saw me holding the baby. Helping me down the steps. Okay. Wait. That's a bit of an exaggeration. He helped me by carrying the baby and yelling back to me, "Don't trip on that crack, Stinks. It's a killer." But still!
He became...tender. Not long after I got home from the hospital after having given birth to Kimberly, Dad came to our apartment for a visit. He was holding the baby in his arms, cooing, and falling completely and utterly love with his first granddaughter. There were tears in his eyes as he looked over at me. It was a beautiful moment. I sensed he had something he wanted to say; something to reflect all the emotion that was so obviously churning inside him.
I was right. As he wiped a tearaway, he said in a shakey voice,"You know, Stinks, I'm just amazed. This HAD to hurt a lot more than even my WORST rhoids." I was so touched and choked up I couldn't speak. I think he knew, though. I think he read the "I love you too, Dad" in the hysterical laughter that followed his analogy.
That was my dad.
