I took this photo in March, when my daddy turned 85, his last birthday on this earth. I knew at that moment this would be my most treasured.
He passed away on Thanksgiving morning. What a blessing this past year was, as I rekindled my relationship with my parents. After my daddy no longer could remember who I was, he beamed at me and told me I was one of his favorite people. And he was one of mine.
Not always. A jokester? Yes, he was. Among the very best! But he did not play. He demanded our best. To whom much is given, much is expected.
I used to think I wasn’t given much. The youngest of three, I was the fun one. Not the smart one, nor the talented one. My older brother and sister held those medals. After those two were grown and flown, I relaxed the house rules. I started calling my parents George and Barb. Not even the full Barbara Ann. Just Barb.
George allowed it. But that was as far as I dared to push the boundaries. At least while living at home. My dad grew up a desperately poor sharecropper, picking up his drunk father from jail and working hard to keep a household of 12 siblings afloat. He was the oldest boy and the first in his family to go to college. He created a way for his younger brothers and sisters to follow suit.
He thought we had it easy. My parents managed to send us to private schools, all on a Methodist pastor’s salary. We gardened and sold the excess vegetables. My mother sewed and took in alterations and commissions. They were smart and resourceful. They never asked for help. They worked hard over their 60 plus years of marriage. They never took a blessing for granted, always giving thanks and seeking ways to give back.
George spent his last year in assisted living. His best friend? Chuck, a man in his 40s who suffered brain damage after a motorcycle accident. Chuck was a professional dancer. The most fabulous, flamboyant gay man who dressed in outrageous clothes and sequined shoes. He had a cocktail at 4 p.m. sharp every afternoon. He cussed like a sailor. I adored him. And he loved my daddy.
I could be a millionaire if I had recorded their daily lunch conversations. They both moved to “memory care” within days of each other, and Chuck passed away right before George. What a match, those two!!
This photo seems like it was taken several lifetimes ago. In the intervening months, George and I became friends. How else to describe going from daughter to unknown to friend who made his face light up.
He was never overly affectionate as we were growing up. He would allow the occasional hug and kiss, but for the most part, it was love shown through jokes and pranks. You had to develop a tough skin, but he would take it as much as he would give it.
When my sister called to tell me he was gone, I had to resist the urge to say, better double check. He would get still, hold his breath and then jump up and startle us. Prankster to the very end!
When my mother would arrive each morning to spend the day with him, George would be waiting. As soon as he spotted her, he would start clapped and shouting, “There’s my beautiful wife!”
Then he would pucker up and demand a kiss. He once demanded a second smooth because his friend Bob hadn’t seen the first.
We have laughed far more than we have cried. I miss knowing I’ll never have another conversation with George this side of Heaven. Oh, I miss him. But we will see each other again. And for that, I am so thankful.
Heaven has seemed so much more real and close. The filament between this realm and the next is oh so thin behind the door with a secret code at the assisted living home.
There are angels on either side to ease the passage, and we are so grateful for those superhuman men and women who work so tirelessly with grace and compassion.
George, you were one of a kind, and I’m so glad you were mine. I’m glad you knew that my Emma, Will and Luke all graduated from college and moved on to law school, teaching school, and vet school.
George, from tobacco farm to your granddaughter, studying law at Harvard. Your grandsons performing surgery and teaching the most profoundly disabled.
I hope your “fun” one made you proud. I was SO proud to call you my daddy. Love and miss you always.
