Goodbye Daddy

A few weeks ago I wrote about the scent of popping corn lingering in the air for long after the popping was done. How the essence of some lives could linger long after the people were gone. So many of you spoke to me of who you remembered, and how they were still with you. It touched me that so many came to me and told of special memories of loved ones that were no longer here. Special memories of childhood, or grandparents, parents, and friends that you called me up to share with me because they still needed to be shared. One of my friends walked into Friday popcorn at Cope and told me that when she walked into the building she stopped to smell the popcorn in the air.

A few days ago my father slipped away from us. Although at 91 years old, it should not have been a shock. At 91 years old, it was. I was fortunate enough to be with him and my mother and my children as he left this world for the next. And I was fortunate enough to have cascades of memories pour over me as my Daddy slipped away so quietly from our hands.

So many memories. Memories of him pushing me in a tire swing way over his head as I screamed in joy for just one more "Underdog" before he went back to work. Memories of him pushing a shovel into the snow for thousands of times as he tried to find the sled I had left out before the snowstorm the day before. And memories of him shaking his glasses at my basketball referee, telling him to have them because he obviously needed them much more than he.

And then there were the days of waiting to say our goodbyes for that very last time. Days of so many people sitting for awhile to tell us who he was to them and what they would always have. I watched as the elderly men who had teed off day after day told me of jokes he told after every missed putt. They sat in my mother’s kitchen and silently cried while their wives filled in on more memories of their husbands and their lost friend.

And one by one the young boys that had once worked for him walked into the house. Now middle aged with families, most of these men were from a totally different world than that of my father. Although they could not be from a more different place, they sat at the table and shared memory after memory of the boss that they had loved. They took the time to come to my mom and tell her how much they had loved him, how much they still cared. I sat and listened and laughed and cried at stories of how he had taught them that honesty was more important than any wrong deed. How he had coached a tug-of-war team that had jettisoned 15 men off the asphalt of the opposing side. A basketball team that had stood up to the opposing team that had been stacked. How when he had an irate customer threaten him with harm, 15 yellow shirted young men raced across a broiling hot parking lot, each trying and be the first to jump in. And how one of those boys had taught his children and now his grandchildren lessons he would never forget from his beloved Mr. Cash.

My father was a child of the depression. A soldier in the biggest war. He was honest and dependable, and, no matter whether you agreed with him or not, you could count on knowing where he stood. And knowing he definitely wouldn’t budge. He never missed cookies and coffee at Brookshire’s each dawn, and nothing would excuse missing tee time each day. Donuts were a staple and pizza was considered a snack, not a meal.

I sit and watch his family around the table. I see a shadow of his posture in my nephew, his hands in my brother. I watch my sons standing nearby. His determination in one, his love of carpentry carried down in my other. I can still feel his love for my mother draped across her shoulders, and can see his memories reflected in my daughter’s tears.

You slipped so quickly away from us my dear, sweet Daddy. I can still smell the popcorn lingering in the air.