| nostatic |
01-10-2012 05:30 PM |
Visitation is tomorrow, memorial is Thu morning. Shirley is back from HK Wed night so she gets a real 1-2 punch. I wrote parts of this many times while driving the past week or so, but of course when you sit down to actually write much of it escapes you.
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In the movie Caddyshack, Judge Smails sees Ty Webb in the locker-room of the country club and asks, "Ty, what did you shoot today?" Ty replies, "oh judge, I don't keep score". Judge Smails is a bit shocked, and asks, "then how do you measure yourself with other golfers?" To which Ty replies, "by height."
By any measure, my father was a tall man. And as such, he cast a long shadow for his sons. A member of America's "Greatest Generation," he joined the Navy at age 18. The year was 1943 and he was sent to war in the Pacific theater. He served as a corpsman both on ship and in land operations. Unlike some veterans, my father never spoke much about the war. I was able to find out that he served on the USS Amsterdam, a light cruiser, and he also served as a runner, due in part to his athletic prowess. A runner had the responsibility of carrying a single person stretcher into battle to retrieve fallen soldiers. My father joked that beyond that he had two tools in his bag - bandages and morphine. And both were used regularly on the fallen. Having worked extensively over the past few years with US warfighters, many of whom had survived multiple IED attacks, I now better understand why my father never desired to re-live or re-tell his personal "war stories."
After the war my father returned to San Diego and met my mother when she was playing organ at the local USO. Since I wasn't around yet I can't give you many details. I do know that his stature as an athlete did present him with a dilemma. He was offered a contract as a pitcher for the Red Sox minor league team. While this opportunity is no doubt a dream for many, for my dad I think the combination of coming home from war and desiring to settle down and start a family made the choice a difficult one. His decision was eventually made by a shoulder injury that ended his baseball career, and so he began his journey with my mom.
As he settled into a somewhat typical suburban lifestyle, he still measured up as a very tall man. He continued to excel at sports, playing fast-pitch softball at the highest levels as well as being a scratch golfer. This love of sports was passed on to me, and I was essentially born on the softball diamond. Even though I came along later in my dad's life, he was still competing. While I never saw him at his peak, I remember being amazed as a young kid, watching him make the ball break in any direction with that crazy windmill motion. There was nothing he couldn't do.
Our parallels are significant. My father was in his mid 30's when I was born. I was in my mid 30's when my son was born. My father played competitive softball until his mid 40's, at which point his body just couldn't take the abuse. I did the same, and in fact my son recounts watching my final city league game a few years ago where he and Shirley cringed every time I dove for a grounder, wondering if I'd be able to get up. Evidently the competitive drive is genetic, and for that I'm thankful. Though a bit sore.
He cast a tall shadow in other aspects of life. It seemed that he could fix or build most anything. I remember when he decided that he wanted a dune buggy to drive out in the desert. So with the help of his neighbor Don and friend Charlie, he built one. From the ground up. And in fact that is how I learned to drive - in that dune buggy in Anza Borrego. As a family we spent a lot of time camping both in the desert and mountains with friends, and I have pictures of the three of us on a Honda Trail 90. I think that started part of my attraction to motorcycles, somewhat to the chagrin of my parents when I broke my foot at age 18 on a motorcycle that I bought without telling them. Later in life I would have a run-in with a coyote but that is a story for another time.
Throughout my life his love and patience never wavered. As I spent four years out of high school to find myself and ostensibly make it as a rock guitarist he remained supportive but firm. When I finally crashed and burned he was there ready to receive his prodigal son. He put me through college, a deed for which I'll always be grateful. I made the most of the opportunity, graduating summa cum laude with a degree in chemistry from USD, and finally left the nest for good, heading to Pasadena to work on my phd at Caltech. While I strived to achieve for myself, I certainly was trying to live up to the tall goals and expectations of my father, if for no other reason than to try and pay back his confidence and have him appreciate his investment.
My mother, who spent 35+ years teaching elementary school, and setting a similarly high bar of achievement, became ill with Parkinson's disease in her 60's. And again, my father stood tall, and stayed by her side for almost a decade of a slow yet inexorable physical decline. He eschewed any sort of nursing facility, instead taking care of her by himself until he could no longer manage alone. Even then he kept her at home and brought in help to keep her comfortable. When she finally passed I saw some chinks in the armor. They were married for over 55 years and now in his 70's, the prospect of being alone was terrifying. While the drain of caring for my mother was massive, the prospect of facing the future by himself was equally daunting. I remember visiting him often and calling him every day for many months after her funeral. There were bad days and better days. And he rose again to stand tall.
Not long after he met Sue and they eventually married. It was good to see him happy and having someone to share his life with. I think they each were happy to find someone to take care of and care about.
As the years passed my dad's health declined due to a number of ailments. But like many of his greatest generation, he complained little. Towards the end he phsycially was a shell of that tall man, but his spirit still loomed large. It was hard for a son to watch though. Over the past two years I've been involved with musical group that plays free shows at nursing homes around Los Angeles. I've seen and played for hundreds, if not thousands of patients and residents of nursing and convalescent facilities. I've seen many of the old, infirm, and dying. It is however a much different vision when the broken old man in the hallway is your father.
As a young child you idolize your father and he can do no wrong. As a teen, your father is wrong about everything. As you move through life and gain your own experience you begin to see your father as neither idol nor tyrant. He is human. When one becomes a parent you begin to realize the terror that your father felt, followed by the joy, followed by the sorrow, and hopefully followed by the pride as your child goes on to flourish on their own. All of these emotions are part of the yin/yang of life. There can be no pleasure without pain, no joy without sorrow, no success without failure. The greatest honor your can give your parents is to truly live your life. I can only hope that I have lived tall enough to give my father the honor he deserves.
In much of Asia, people greet each other with a bow and the word, "namaste." Made up of two Sanskrit words, "nama", meaning "to bow," and "te", meaning "you, namaste roughly translates to: the God/Goddess Spirit within me recognizes and honors the God/Goddess Spirit within you. So as he leaves on his journey, I say to my father, namaste.
Despite years of paying for lessons and enduring various instrumental musical rackets in the house, I don't think my father ever saw me perform on bass. If you'll indulge me, I'm going to rectify that right now.
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