Monday, September 19, 2005
It's been a few years now, but Dad's passing is something I don't think I'll ever get over.
My Dad and I were always close. Even to this day, I have the occasional impulse to pick up the phone and call him; he had a lot of experience, wisdom, and knowledge of things that I'll never have (for example, he was a combat infantryman--there's one experience I'm not likely to have), and I learned a lot from him. I didn't always agree with him, but I always respected his opinions; for one thing, he was the best judge of character of anyone I ever met (though it took me a while to realize it).
Dad started out poor, and was shuttled from one parent to the other after his parents' divorce. I really don't know much about the details of his childhood, except that it was very rough. He lived on Chicago's South Side, one of the toughest places on earth. One summer he came back to Chicago after spending the summer with his father, only to discover that his mother and step-father had moved, and he didn't know where they were. It took him a couple of weeks to track them down. Dad was about 13 then.
He never, ever let misfortune slow him down, though. He went to work for a good company and rose through the ranks to become a senior executive--by means of brains, dedication, guts, and sheer hard work. He might've risen further if he'd been a better politician, but my Dad could no more compromise his principles than he could sing opera.
Dad wasn't perfect by any means--he was opinionated, impatient, a smart-aleck, grouchy, smoked incessantly, spent too much time at work, and had a fondness for women that didn't do his marriage any favors. Yet he was also loving, sentimental, supportive, the best father he knew how to be, brave, smart, and always his own man.
Even though it's been years since he died, I miss him every single day. If I have one consolation, it's that in his last years I did take the time to tell him how much he meant to me and how much I loved him. (And now I'm telling you.)
And he felt the same way about me, though he couldn't really express it verbally; he just wasn't that kind of guy. But to give you an example, the year before he died, there was a little story about me in the Wall Street Journal. Dad was so pleased (and impressed) that I think he told everyone he'd ever met. That meant more to me than any of the other comments I received about that story.
One of the last things I said to him was, "I have always been so proud to be your son." I never spoke truer words. As I get older and can better appreciate the pressures he had to endure, I'm more proud of him than ever.
If I'm half the man my father was, I'm doing okay.
My Dad and I were always close. Even to this day, I have the occasional impulse to pick up the phone and call him; he had a lot of experience, wisdom, and knowledge of things that I'll never have (for example, he was a combat infantryman--there's one experience I'm not likely to have), and I learned a lot from him. I didn't always agree with him, but I always respected his opinions; for one thing, he was the best judge of character of anyone I ever met (though it took me a while to realize it).
Dad started out poor, and was shuttled from one parent to the other after his parents' divorce. I really don't know much about the details of his childhood, except that it was very rough. He lived on Chicago's South Side, one of the toughest places on earth. One summer he came back to Chicago after spending the summer with his father, only to discover that his mother and step-father had moved, and he didn't know where they were. It took him a couple of weeks to track them down. Dad was about 13 then.
He never, ever let misfortune slow him down, though. He went to work for a good company and rose through the ranks to become a senior executive--by means of brains, dedication, guts, and sheer hard work. He might've risen further if he'd been a better politician, but my Dad could no more compromise his principles than he could sing opera.
Dad wasn't perfect by any means--he was opinionated, impatient, a smart-aleck, grouchy, smoked incessantly, spent too much time at work, and had a fondness for women that didn't do his marriage any favors. Yet he was also loving, sentimental, supportive, the best father he knew how to be, brave, smart, and always his own man.
Even though it's been years since he died, I miss him every single day. If I have one consolation, it's that in his last years I did take the time to tell him how much he meant to me and how much I loved him. (And now I'm telling you.)
And he felt the same way about me, though he couldn't really express it verbally; he just wasn't that kind of guy. But to give you an example, the year before he died, there was a little story about me in the Wall Street Journal. Dad was so pleased (and impressed) that I think he told everyone he'd ever met. That meant more to me than any of the other comments I received about that story.
One of the last things I said to him was, "I have always been so proud to be your son." I never spoke truer words. As I get older and can better appreciate the pressures he had to endure, I'm more proud of him than ever.
If I'm half the man my father was, I'm doing okay.
