Now You Know

At March 20, 2013
By admin
In Favorites, Generations, H.A.R.D. Lessons, Uncategorized
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1976 Watching the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson together, every night.

My dad died somewhat unexpectedly in the last hour of the last official day of winter, on March 20, 2007. The significance of his timing is not lost on me. When I think about it, he lived exactly as he had always lived, with purpose. He held on to that final season of his life and let go just moments before the next one.

For almost two years, he had been doctored. He had endured radiation and chemo with a smile for us and a wink when he saw that we saw how pleased with himself he was for finding a cute, fuzzy toque for his head. Yet, that winter had come, those late evening hours passed, and spring arrived without him.

My mother and I followed the ambulance to the hospital where he was pronounced. Devastated, I leaned down to his ear and softly whispered, “Now you know.” Three little words were all I could muster, but when I think about it now, they are profound.

Since that time I’ve come to know that those we have loved and lost are never really far away. Through pain, I’ve learned that time is a human measure and touch is a human need. I’ve learned to celebrate his life, not mourn his death. This is where faith comes in. I also realized that the way I conduct my affairs and how I treat others directly reflects his legacy. In everything I do, he remains my compass–my true north.

Now here’s the interesting part:

1968 My dad’s graduation from Roosevelt University in Chicago. My mom used to drive under the post office to pick him up at night from college. We were tucked in blankets in the back seat.

Not only is my dad sitting on my shoulder these days, but he enjoys letting me know. My mom, my brother, and I fish in Michigan’s upper peninsula every year for vacation. The first thing I do when I get there is to fire up my dad’s Merc 60 and take his bass boat up Corbett’s Creek to our special fishing spot to see if they are still hittin’. Without fail, the motor quits. Every time, every year, six years straight. I sit there on the silent creek and smile. Faith.

He made sure we knew he was present at his eulogy, too. There had been a story told about my parent’s first date where he nervously spilled a whole glass of ice water on my mom at dinner. Then she told a story about more water spills; it was their kind of “luck” when they went out. At the funeral luncheon, a waiter shouldering a large tray brought eight glasses of water to our table. Just like a bad movie, he tripped–and toppled the eight full glasses of ice water down my daughter’s back. Everyone jumped up, jumped back, and got bug eyed thinking to themselves, “It can’t be!”

1982 Mom and Dad at a rest area on the way to Michigan to visit their first grandchild. Mom was a grandma at 38.

A few weeks later my mother’s two sisters were up at our farm and we took a walk to a little pond on our property while mom rested back at the truck. We were standing on the shore talking and enjoying the woods and water when one of my aunts thought to ask if there were any fish in the pond. I was right in the middle of telling her how my son, Adam, and Gramps had jury rigged a fish finder to a little row boat a few summers back and rowed all over the four acre lake looking for fish. At the exact moment I said that my dad had said, “There are absolutely no fish in this pond,” A FISH JUMPED COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WATER. Our jaws hung open, our brains couldn’t process what our eyes had seen, and my aunt was the first one to dare utter, “That was your dad!” Faith.

These random water events are not his only form of amusement. There are others that I’m reserving for another time. I used to think I was crazy or desperate or wishful. Now I know.

“There’s one form of immortality that I like to think about.

It is that all those that from the very first have given anything to the world are living in the world today.”