Service

Last weekend was, in its way, Memorial Day for me and my family. We spent the weekend remembering Dad, in three different, but appropriate ways.

Saturday-

We got up early Saturday (early for Emily, at least) and packed Mom, my sister Bobbi, and my niece Emily into the van and took a road trip to Maryland. Not normally the kind of thing we'd do (I like sleeping in as much as the next person), but this was a little bit special. We were headed down to the Hilltop Fruit Market. Nothing fancy about it, just a roadside market, but it was a place Dad used to take Mom (and Bobbi and Emily from time to time) as an excuse to take a nice leisurely drive through some wonderful country. It was about the journey, not the destination. I'd known they used to take drives down to this place, but had never gone with them, so I didn't know where it was or how to get there. Mom couldn't remember the name of the place, but gave a really good description of it. I found out through a friend where it was, then found some directions for it. Instead of taking those, I took a look at a map and asked myself, "Which way would Dad go?" Well, knowing him, there were probably at least 3 different ways to go, with another 5 in reserve. I picked the most obvious one, and off we went.

I wasn't sure what the drive would be like, especially for Mom. Would it be sad for her? Bittersweet? As we drove down, I imagine all of our thoughts drifted to thoughts of Dad from time to time- 'what would it have been like to come with them?' 'I remember the last time we came down' 'I remember the first time we saw that place, all those years ago'... but it never felt like those thoughts were oppressing, or taking the enjoyment out of the trip. Instead, it felt like he was there with us, or maybe in the next car over. We talked about things they'd seen on different trips with Dad down there, about the scenery, the towns, or whatever- it was just another family trip. Partway down, they talked about seeing Nemacolin, a fancypants resort, one time. I was pretty sure we wouldn't see it; I felt bad, since I wanted to take them the way Dad would, I wanted it to be like when he drove.

I shouldn't have worried; sure enough we passed Nemacolin about 20 minutes later. The rest of the day was a lot of fun. We passed a horse and wagon train- I don't know what else to call it; it was in celebration of Pike Days or something like that. Plenty of people on horseback and in horse-drawn carts, some of them authentic, some of them looking like giant-sized Radio Flyers. We got to the Hilltop Fruit Market (after asking directions from a nice kid who essentially pointed and said 'look that way') and loaded up on an insane amount of bulk candy (my sweet tooth is genetic, thank you) and some veggies and sundry other stuff. We stopped for lunch at that quintessentially American site, McDonalds. And we took a drive through Nemacolin on the way back (though I drove through kind of fast before they could figure out the Dodge Caravan didn't fit in with the Hummers and BMWs...). It was a great time, fun and relaxing, spent with the family.

Sunday-

Saturday was about our family remembering Dad and what he did for us. Sunday was about remembering and honoring what he did for others, and for his country.

After chuch, we drove over to Harmarville for a memorial service hosted by CORE. CORE is the Center for Organ Recovery & Education- they are a non-profit group dedicated to helping promote organ donation and transplants. They get involved whenever someone needs a transplant- they help find donors for those in need, and help make people aware of the tremendous good that can come from signing up to be a donor.

We first learned about CORE shortly after Dad passed. Someone from their offices contacted us to let us know that they might be able to use some organs or tissue from Dad's body, and would we be willing to make that donation? Mom and Bobbi didn't even hesitate: "If your Dad can still help someone, then he will." We were surprised they even contacted us, actually; Dad was 78 years old, and in very poor shape.

Days passed, and we would occasionally wonder what had come of that phone call. Had they just decided they couldn't do anything, and didn't want to tell us? What had happened? About a week or so later, we received a letter in the mail: CORE had in fact been able to use tissue from Dad's body. It made perfect sense. Why would something like Death stop him from helping someone?

And so, almost a year later, we found ourselves at 'A Special Place' Ceremony. It's not so much a Memorial as a Celebration, for all those donors and their families, whose tragedies were instead turned into triumphs for so many others.

I wasn't sure what to expect; I figured maybe a couple hundred people would be there. Instead, what seemed like thousands were there- I had no idea so many would attend. And I learned that it wasn't just the donor's families who'd showed up; there were many recipients who'd also shown up. There were speeches from CORE members, thanking the families for the donations, for giving that gift to save lives. There was a speech from a man who looked through the grief of losing his only child to help others, and from a man who, thanks to two donors, was able to see again. Finally, two people spoke about the impact donation had on their lives: a woman's sister died in a fall, and her liver was donated to save the life of a man. Some years later, the families decided they wanted to meet because, as the woman put it, "she just wanted to make sure he was okay."

At the end of the ceremony, there was a balloon release, one balloon for each of the donors:

The next picture was a few seconds later. The circle you see towards the top of the picture is a circular rainbow; it was around the sun for almost the entire time of the ceremony:

As we were sitting, waiting for the crowds to thin, a woman walked up to us and said "Thank you for your donation. Because of someone like you, I got a kidney transplant. That was 21 years ago." That simple statement made me so thankful, and so proud.

Our next trip was to the local American Legion, Post 980. They have a Memorial Day service every year, to honor those Legion members lost in the past year. They have it a week before Memorial Day because, as they said "We want people to remember the reason for Memorial Day." It was a great service, as I would expect nothing less from these men- they were there for Dad to pay tribute at the funeral home and at the cemetery. One of the men at the service read the names of those who'd died in the past year- sadly, it took all too long. Near the end of the ceremony, the honor guard fired a salute:

I looked around at these old men, and the young men and women, and listened to what they had to say, about duty, and honor, and America, and comradeship, and love. I was filled with such pride- not just for Dad, and his humble sacrifice- but for all of these people, who gave so much not only for their families and friends, but for their entire country. To know that, even in these cynical and jaded times, there are those who will stand and fight for our country- for the ideals our country represents, for the flaws in our country, for the hope that we can rise above those flaws-

It was an honor to be in the company of such people. It is an honor to know my Father was such a person.

That was Sunday.

This weekend, as you kick back and enjoy the idea of not working, eating hot dogs, and the idea of the Penguins continuing their winning ways, please take a moment or two to think about those who serve- not just in the military, but all those people who serve others, by teaching, by protecting, by healing, by parenting, by supporting, and those who serve, and save, even though they're gone.

A Gentle Reminder

My Sister-in-Law, Linda, is quite talented.

Not only is she a very good nurse (that's her 'day' job), she's a phenomenal seamstress. For as long as I've known her, she's made all manner of fantastic creations out of fabric, thread, and what I imagine must be an incredible amount of patience. Back in the mid-80's, she made me a jumpsuit for Halloween so I could go as one of my favorite movie characters back then, the Ghostbusters. It zipped up, just like theirs did, and had silver thread stitched on it to make all the 'pockets' of their jumpsuits. It went quite well with my cardboard-box-backpack and broomhandle/tissue box particle thrower. I wore the hell out of that thing, often wearing it around the house to play in. Later, when we got our first computer (the venerable Apple IIc), she made a heavy-duty dust cover to fit snugly over the monitor and computer when not in use (remember back in the day, when people worried about such things as getting dust in the computer?). She's made all sorts of cool, clever, and sweet things throughout the years.

And then she made this.

Linda started making these bears a few years ago, to give to the parents of newborns who never made it out of the hospital. Then, when her own father passed away, she took one of his favorite shirts and made a bear for her mother and for herself. These bears, made of fabric and memories, became lasting reminders of those gone from our daily lives, but gone from our hearts and minds. She's made several for us- this one was the one I asked her to make.

The original shirt was a polo shirt made out of a football-jersey type of material, kind of like a mesh. The Cummins logo was on the left breast. Linda makes the entire bear (sans stuffing) using only the shirt; the bear's eyes and nose come from the buttons for the neck and collar. Since the fabric is like mesh, the stuffing actually pokes out a little bit- so he's a fuzzy bear (funnily enough, Dad always liked Fozzie Bear from the Muppets). As you can see, she put the logo on his leg, so everyone knows where he came from. Best of all, Linda put the tag on his back. The shirt was made by Champion. It reads:

It Takes a Little More to Make a Champion

Very appropriate, I think.

I always keep Dad close to my heart, and talk to him often. Now I have the Bear around, and I sometimes talk to him, too. He doesn't answer, but sometimes, he gets this look in his eyes...

Thanks, Linda.

---

Sorry for the missed Wednesday posting- there was a computer meltdown, but we're feeling much better now. Hopefully back with more newness early next week.

Cheers.

Roadside Assistance

I always like to see what the editorial cartoonists do whenever a famous person has died; they usually seem to a little bit funny, a little bit touching, and are often a more effective tribute than any obituary. So, here's mine for Dad.

He fixed so many things down here; why should Heaven be any different?

See you Friday.

Remembrance

That's my Mom and Dad sharing one of many, many laughs, last year at their Fiftieth wedding anniversary. The smiles, laughter, and love of them both are the remembrances I'll carry with me always. The pain will fade, but the love will remain.

This'll be a much shorter post than last time; just a few poems I found that were particularly meaningful or helpful to me recently.

First, the poem I read at our family's gathering- I found this poem years ago, and was always struck by the power and passion of the words. Later, I would come to associate this with my father, because the words so accurately described his stand against his weakening health. It was, originally written for a father, and the words really embody a son's love and admiration and awe of his father.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-Dylan Thomas

I really love this next one- I love how it takes the sting out of the loss... not through humor, or distraction, or anything like that, but by drawing on a lifetime of experiences and using words to truly console the grieving. I think my dad would have loved this poem- I can practically hear him saying these things to us...

Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner

All is well.

-Henry Scott-Holland

I was going to post more, but I think these two are perfect as is.

I'll be back next Wednesday.

Have a good weekend.

Music: "You Are Loved (Don't Give Up)" - Josh Groban

Dedication

Robert Lloyd Darrall died last Wednesday, June 11. He was Husband to Bernice, Father to Mark, Roberta, and Steven, Father-in-Law to Linda, Grandfather to Jonathon, Kevin, and Emily. He was Son to Lloyd and Collette, Brother to Dolores and William. He was the Mechanic to hundreds of truckers, train engineers, boaters, generator operators and more. He was Staff Sergeant Darrall to the Army. He was Bob to the dozens of co-workers he mentored and partnered with at Cummins Diesel. He was Mr. Darrall, then Dad, to the many friends of his children and grandchildren.

He was so much more than that.

He was the strongest man I ever knew. His strength had nothing to do with how much he could lift, though at 78, he was still stronger than most. His strength came from three places: his mind, his will, and his family. As I think about it, though, I really believe that those three sources were actually all connected in him.

My father graduated from a Technical High School- something akin to a Vo-Tech school today. He never went to college, never took any higher level classes. And yet, he was one of the smartest men I've ever known. And yes, that is saying something. He loved learning. It didn't matter what the subject seemed to be, he knew something about it, and he was almost always right. If colleges had degrees for "Jacks of All Trades", my father would have taught the class. If something needed done and he didn't already know how to do it, he would teach himself. He just loved to know things.

Dad was not a fighter. He wasn't interested in guns or violence or anything like that. But when the Korean conflict escalated into war, Dad joined the Army. He served three years and one day (they had to hold him an extra day to process his paperwork, I believe), and in that time, he served his country without question, and without fail. Korea is where he really took to working on giant machines- making things work came naturally to him, and he enjoyed it immensely. He told me how often, after working his time in the motor pool or out in the field repairing the vehicles, he would go back to his tent and read up on the technical manuals. Like I said, he loved to know things. During his time in Korea, he was promoted from private up to Corporal, and ultimately to Staff Sergeant, a difficult feat to accomplish in any era. For the longest time, Dad didn't want to talk much about his time in Korea. I often thought it was because of bad memories of his time there. However, as the years have passed, and I've talked with him more about it, I've come to believe that it wasn't bad experiences that kept him quiet; I believe he just didn't think it was that big of a deal, and there were more important things to think of. That was Dad.

Coming back from Korea, he soon found himself working for Cummins Diesel, traveling all over working as a mechanic, repairing all manner of engines in all weather, sweating, freezing, and loving every minute of it. He worked for Cummins for 50 years, longer than anyone else in the company. Though he started as a mechanic, he eventually was forced to come off the road in 1974 or '75 (my memory's a little fuzzy there) after his first heart attack. He went to work as a manager in the Monroeville shop, and later worked in their Murrysville and Harmarville branches. He became an "Applications Engineer"- by this time, Cummins realized they had a resource at hand who had built, fixed, or improved the vast majority of engines they'd made in the past 70 years, and so formally had Dad step in to help solve problems. Whether it was designing an all new system from the ground up, or repairing one of a handful of working 70-year-old Cummins train engines, they would ask him how to do it. That was Dad.

Somehow, in all that time working, he managed to meet and fall in love with my Mom. They married in 1957, and a little over a year later, had my brother, Mark. Not long after, my sister Bobbi came along. I arrived somewhat unexpectedly fifteen years later. Mom and Dad did the best they could raising us- and they did a pretty amazing job, considering how we all turned out. One of the greatest things they did for us was in fact what they didn't do- they never told us what to do with our lives. Our parents never said "you must go to college" or "you must work at the shop" or whatever. Our parents said "do you want to do this?" or "do you want to try that?" Our parents never gave us ultimatums; they gave us opportunities. When we succeeded, they were there to share our joy. When we failed, they were there to help us back on our feet. It was never "what did you do wrong?" it was always "what can we do to help make it right?". Those are my parents.

If you've been reading the blog for a while, you might recall my post a while back about the pictures I made for my dad back in the hospital. I talked about how strong he was... well, this is all relevant to the topic at hand, so I'll repeat myself here. My dad had the strongest will of anyone I've ever known. He had at least five heart attacks. The first one he had? He drove himself to the doctor's office. My father drank pretty heavily- not as much as his father and brother did, but he drank plenty. One day, he put down the drink, got up from the bar, and walked away. Dad smoked for nearly 40 years. When the doctors finally told him the smoking was really going to kill him, he stopped cold. No patch, no gum, no "just one after meals", he just stopped. Mom kids about it being the "Stubborn German" in him that let him do such things, but I think he used something else to give him that kind of strength of will- his family. He loved us all so much, and he had seen what those things had done to other people, that he would not let the same thing happen to us. No, he would stop it, whatever it took. That was my Dad.

He'd been living with emphysema for at least 25 years. Many people tend to give up and become more and more insular as the disease progresses. Not Dad. When he learned he had this fatal disease, he did the only thing he knew how to do. He fought. He fought like hell, and he did not give up. He went to the doctor's all the time- not to complain about his condition, or to whine about how unfair it was, but to plan his attack. He worked with the doctors to figure out the best way to combat this unbeatable disease. He went to physical therapy three times a week for many, many years- to build up his muscles and his lungs to fight against the onslaught. When new drugs would become available to possibly treat the disease, he would be taking them. He did everything in his power to fight as hard as he could against this. He put his mind into action, as I saw for myself. When he was in the hospital back in April, he kept meticulous records of his medications, breathing treatments, and exercise. Then, when the doctors came around, he would pull them out and go over his findings with them, so they could come up with another tactic. When I talked to him, he told me he and his doctors were working on "plans" for how to deal with what the disease was throwing at him. He would not give up. That was my father.

He died.

However, let me be perfectly clear on this, and read my words very carefully. He was not "beaten by this disease". He did not "lose a long battle against a terrible illness". I believe with my entire heart and soul, with every fiber of my being, that he knew exactly what was going to happen, and he chose to die in the exact way he chose to live: on his terms. From talking to my mom, and looking through all of his belongings, I truly do believe he was preparing for this, and decided that last Wednesday was time to finally let go.

First, some time ago, most of the family got together to have "the talk". What would happen when Dad finally died. We went over all the things we could think of, and left with two main items in place: one, Mom and Dad would go to an attorney to update their arrangements; and two, I would be the executor, due to an insignificant amount of legal experience I had from dealing with Pennsylvania Real Estate and estates. At the time of this conversation, I was living in Maryland, and expected to do so for years to come.

And yet, on May 9th, I moved back to Pennsylvania. I went from being almost four hours away from my folks to being forty minutes away.

Second, Dad had been in the hospital recently, for a very scary few days. He had made it out, but was left weaker than ever. He needed to be helped throughout the house, often relying on my mom and niece to get around. Except for those last few days. He was getting around pretty well on his own.

Wednesday morning, when my mom went to help dad get out of bed, she found him already up and on his way to the dinner table. His appetite had been a shell of its former self. That morning, he asked for one of his favorites, a Belgian waffle. He and Mom sat at the table and he ate the whole thing. After that, he walked over to his favorite chair, sat down, and reminded my mom of his cup of tea, one of his morning rituals. She brought it to him, he drank some of it, and set it down. He asked my Mom to go turn down his oxygen (part of his regimen, he regulated his oxygen throughout the day). When she came back, he was gone. Nothing traumatic, he just went. He had one of the best mornings he had in a long time, after feeling as good as he had in months, and he went as peacefully as anyone could imagine.

My sister called me. Half an hour later, I was at the hospital. It was too late, of course. Too late to say goodbye, too late to say all those things I thought I needed to say, too late for so much. But I wasn't too late for everyone else. I cried- I cried so hard- and then my mom was there, or my sister, or my niece. And I was there when they cried. I was there when we said our "see you later"s to him- he wasn't leaving us yet. I was there when we got to the house, there when we had to make the funeral arrangements, there when I had to make calls. I was there when Mom told me she was going to rely on me because Dad knew I could help, because Dad had faith in me. I was there because, five days before my father died, I moved back home.

I tried my best to handle all the details. Between Bobbi, Mark, and me, we all made short work of it. But I noticed, whenever I needed to find one particular bit of information, I would come across a piece of paper- written in Dad's hand- with just what I needed. When Bobbi went online to see if she needed to transfer some funds around to cover expenses, she found that Dad had already done it, a few days before.

His hand was in everything.

Even in death, even beyond death, Dad was making sure everything was okay for his family. There was never anything we had to worry about- no real worries other than what worries we made for ourselves. But he made everything okay.

That was my Dad.

Before the funeral began, some of the kids and grandkids spoke. I read a poem (I'll post it later this week), my sister read a great short work about how we should always be aware of how precious our time here on earth is, my niece and sister-in-law said a few words that cut right to the heart of what kind of man he was. But the words that stick with me the most are those spoken my my elder nephew, Jon, and by his father. Jon spoke beautifully about how to sum up my father in one word: "Dedicated". As Jon put it, "Dedicated to his Country, Dedicated to his Job, Dedicated to his Wife, Dedicated to his Children, and Dedicated to his Grandchildren" - and if that wasn't my Dad, then I never knew him. And my brother spoke about a sign he'd seen that said something akin to "Into all your work, put love". He spoke about how Dad truly put love into everything he did- as a husband, father, grandfather, mechanic- everything he did, he did with love. Mark spoke about taking Dad's example and following it, and re-dedicating himself to all he does. That struck me deeply, because for so long now, I've felt like I've let my parents down. I never lived the life I imagine they wanted for me- I've made so many mistakes, and so many bad choices- and I always thought they were somewhat disappointed in me. But talking with Dad, and especially with Mom, I realize the only things they ever felt about me, and all their children, were love and pride. And so I've tried to take my nephew's words, and my brother's words, and my parents' words and actions, to heart. My mantra, my prayer, my poem, my dedication and supplication to my father, is at the end.

My father lived on this world 78 years. He will live on in us always. We, his family, have so much to be grateful for. To have known a man as loving, as smart, as supportive. To have seen such strength and will in action, and to know that that is within each of us. To have been able to call such a man "Dad" or "Father" or "Grandpap" or "Pap Pap". And to know we have a mother just like our father.

Help me, Father, to be more than I thought I could be
Be my hands to help me hold fast
Be my feet to help me stand firm
Be my eyes to help me see clearly
Be my lips to help me speak truly
Be my heart to help me love fully
Help me, Father, to be the man you always knew me to be

Unspoken, Undone; Spoken, Done

There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.
Hodding Carter

This is a pretty long post, but it means a lot to me, and it might be worth a few minutes of your time.

Twenty years ago, I asked my father what he'd like to see me draw. I was, no doubt, full of my talent and certain of my ability to draw anything he asked of me. Perhaps it would be Batman, crouching and ready to leap on some poor bad guy. Or maybe Captain America, taking out some ratzi. Whatever he'd ask, I'd be ready.

"Draw me a bird."

Sorry, what? A bird? what kind of comic artist draws a bird? That's pretty boring, I thought, and a waste of my massive talent as an artist. But, I humored him- there was an image of a dove on one of the hymnals at church. I drew the outline, added where I thought the eyes should go, and some feet, and handed to him. There's his bird. Maybe now he'll ask for something cool.

"You didn't take any time with that."

Well, he was right- it was so boring! But he laughed a little as he said it, and took it from me, and that was that. Sure, I did a lousy job with it, and I knew it, but whatever- it wasn't that important.

As the years went by, that moment would pop into my head- at the most random times, without warning or explanation. And I'd think about what I'd done (or not done), and think on what I could do if I really tried to do something for him. God knows, I'd gotten a bit better at drawing since that first picture. I'd get close enough to look at a book for some pictures, but invariably it would drift back out of my mind. Off and on, now and again, for nearly twenty years. Last year, in the midst of my watercolor class, I thought to myself, 'finally, I'll get around to painting Dad that picture of that bird- he'd like that, I bet. Not that he'd even remember, all these years later." I found some pictures of birds I liked on the internet, printed them out, and set them aside. 'I'll do it later,' I told myself again, 'when there's more time.'

But there's never enough time, is there? No matter how many or how few goals we set ourselves, no matter the difficulty or the simplicity of the challenges we give ourselves, there is just never enough time. Time will always have its way with you, and always leave you broken and bloodied on the ground, wounded by regret and shame and fear. You will look back and think to yourself, 'My God, why did I waste those chances? Why did I set those goals, and do nothing to achieve them? Why didn't I do this one, simple task? Why didn't I even try?"

How often are we given the chance to know that time is about to come calling, to knock on the door and remind you that not all the time in the world is yours? To set aright those things that can be, to not leave unsaid words that need spoken, to not leave undone those actions that need done? Too often, those needed words fall on deaf ears, too often, those needed actions are unseen.

What a terrible gift it is, to hear that knocking, and to know that it's not for you, but for one you love. What a beautiful burden, to hear that knocking, and know that, when the door is finally opened, and you have to say goodbye, that he was able to hear your words, and see your actions. How wonderful, to have these last few minutes, days, hours, years, seconds, and to know you didn't waste them with silence.

All of this spins through my head, driving me nearly insane with sadness and regret. So often, I hold back on words, on actions. Considering how much my silence has cost me in the past, you would think I'd have learned my lesson. But silence, silence of those things I'm afraid to speak of, those questions I'm afraid to ask, has been a longtime companion of mine. Silence is so easy to maintain; words are so hard to come by- once uttered, they cannot be taken back, and their reactions can't be controlled.

But no more. I've learned that there will not always be 'more time'. I have learned that silence can be as impossible to take back as the spoken word.

But I still have time. Thank God, I still have time.

I knew it was time to sit down and look at my list of words unspoken and things undone. I knew that the time wasn't now, but this wake up call we all received was enough to tell me that now was the time; to speak, to not remain silent. To act, to not stay still.

The words- I have so many words- so much to say, how can I possibly say them all in less than a lifetime? In a thousand lifetimes? I thought about all those words, and eventually, I found the ones to say the most, to speak my mind and my heart.

The action- that was easy.

I walked into the room, surprising them both. Mom was sitting in the corner of the room, reading the Sunday paper. He was sitting up, practically lounging in his bed, looking for all the world like he was at home here and just reading another section of the paper. He looked so old there- was this the man who used to carry around hundreds of pounds of equipment like it was a bookbag? But God, he looked so strong there, too- this was the same man who stopped drinking one day because he decided it was time to stop, even though both his father and brother had their lives damaged and cut short by years of alcohol abuse. This is the same man who put up with five heart attacks and a triple bypass and God only knows what else and came back stronger and better than any doctor ever imagined. This is a man who has no idea of what it means to give up. They both gave out little "hey"s of surprised greeting, and I made some dumb comment about him being lazy or something. I gave him a hug, as long a hug and as strong a hug as I could manage, and somehow kept from breaking down and crying on his shoulder. Another big hug and a kiss for Mom, and then we're talking a little bit. The expected stuff: "how are you feeling? Doing alright? What are the doctors saying?", things like that. After a few minutes, Mom asked me what I'd brought; I had the bag with the pictures (stuck inside a couple frames, hopefully to spruce them up a bit) behind my back.

Words were about to fail me; I knew what I wanted to say, what I had to say, but they were leaving me. I felt like such a fool, like an idiot for holding on to this stupid little idea that somehow these stupid pictures would mean anything to him, that he'd even remember, that I'd even be able to say anything about what I wanted to say, that he'd understand what I was really saying to him.

"I don't know if you remember," I began, as I pulled the pictures from the bag. I held them to my chest, now strangely ashamed and proud of them. "But about twenty years ago, I asked you if you wanted me to draw you anything; you probably don't even remember, but you said a bird, and I drew you one and it was crap, and you knew it, and I knew it, and here it is twenty years later, but..."

"Oh, I remember!" he said, with a big smile on his face.

Of course he did. He's my father. And thank God, I am his son.

---

He seems to really enjoy the pictures; he never actually told me what kind of bird to draw him, so I settled for finding a dramatic picture of a falcon, about to land amongst some bushes or something. Almost as soon as I started drawing it, I realized I had to do something else with it, not just give him a pencil drawing. Since I've become so taken with Photoshop, I thought he would appreciate seeing what I've taught myself to do, artistically, with the computer the same way I could show him what I've taught myself to do with pencils. I know neither he nor Mom really ever "got" what I did with my drawing- they're not big fans of superheroes and comic books. But that never mattered- I never had a shortage of pencils and papers growing up. He took them, and kept them with him for a while, before finally sending them back home with Mom. Less likely to get lost in the shuffle that way. We sat and talked some, more unimportant things. The next day when we went to visit, we sat and talked some, still more unimportant things. Except, in the ways that really matter, they were all important. I got to talk with my Mom and Dad.

He's doing fine, by the way. Once again, he continues to ignore expectations, and makes great progress. He still has a long road ahead of him, but he keeps on the same way he always has- one step at a time, one breath at a time, no giving up. I don't know if I'll ever get to say every word I want to say to him, to do all the things I'd like to do with him- really, do any of us ever have that chance? But I do know that I was finally able to finish this one task for him- and that it says just about everything I needed him to hear.

I'll be going up to visit again this weekend. Just to sit and talk with him some more, and hear what he has to say, and tell him more of those things I want to say. It'll probably be awkward at first, because neither of us are especially good at talking about these 'important' things (I didn't even know if I could write this, but writing to a friend today helped me find my voice). But I'm not going to give up on it, I'm not going to leave more unsaid. Because like I said, he's my father. And I am my father's son.