Fathers Day without a Father

It’s my first fathers day without my dad. He died 4 ½ months ago, February 7th, 2007. I’ve spent the entire day not really thinking much about it until now, 9:43 a night. A little alone time can make one emotional I guess. I went into my back room and opened the drawer and reached for the black bag under the books which contained the 11 photos, expired drivers licence, and the newspaper clipping from the Sunday, February 18th obituary.

I haven’t looked at these photos in a month. Most of them are such bad quality and for the most part they are picture that hold little meaning to me other than they are the only images I have of my father. His military flag sits on the shelf behind me next to my baseball bobble heads, almost as if he was the flag himself, and he too was standing there with Huston Street and Jason Kendell, only his head wouldn’t shake.

The last time I saw my dad was January 25th, 2007. We spent the day together, helping me pack up my Sacramento apartment for the next days big move to Seattle. Aside from lifting countless boxes up and down the stairs and the tiresome manual labor, January 25th unknowing at the time was one of the best times I’ve spent with my dad. In the midst of trying to move 50lb boxes of records we decided to push them across the apartment parking lot. The grey tubs scraped along the concrete while my dad and I scrambled and pushed behind our boxes racing to the end of the lot. We laughed at childishness, an essence my dad always seems to maintain. And then continued on, lifting the boxes into the back of the truck and going back to work.

And then the couch, the stupid black ikea couch that we decided to take to Seattle. The crooked, bent design of the porch wouldn’t allow us to walk the couch to the end of the stairway, and it was my bright idea for my dad to drop the couch down one story. I, for some reason assumed I would be strong enough to catch it. As my dad said “ready, are you sure, are you ready,” I felt the dead weight come barelling down, pelting me right in the chest. And I laughed and gasped in the same breath as my dad hollered and came running down the stairs. Somehow I managed to stand there, holding the couch upright, and then we moved the couch into the back of the U-Haul. And then laughed at what a stupid idea.

Not once that day did my dad complain. He worked tirelessly as he moved box after box to the end of the stairs. intermittently we would laugh and joke, make a comment about baseball, about how Zito is going to go to the Giants, how the Raiders probably wont be any better this year, and about how much he would miss me, just knowing I wasn’t there.

When it all was packed up, said and done, I gave me dad a hug, he told me to call him tomorrow. He walked out the back alley to his purple PT Cruiser and got into his car. TJ and I walked out the front gate and got into our car. We pulled up behind my dad as he was backing his car out, he waved, and we all were off in our different directions.

I called my dad once or twice on the drive up to Seattle giving him updates here and there. Thursday, February 1st was the last day I spoke to my dad. I called him while driving home after my first day at work. We briefly spoke, said things were good, joked about how sore we were after moving, and then said I love you and hung up the phone while I waited for the light to turn green on the corner of Boren and Broadway at 5:30 that Thursday evening.

I called my dad again on the following Tuesday and left a message telling him I was just checking in. And the another message on Thursday saying “dad you always call me back, hope things are okay, give me a call, just wanted to check it.” He never called back. I spoke with my mom on Saturday, said my dad hadn’t called me back, and suggested someone should maybe check on him, it wasn’t like him to not call back, and we joked and said the only way he wouldn’t call me back was if he was dead.

And he was, he had been, for at least 7 days, probably since that Tuesday I called him. He lay face down, naked, lifeless on his bed. And here things are 4 ½ months later, still calling the coroners office every two weeks with hopes that they may have figured out why he is dead. And still nothing, no answers, no reason. Just one question, why.

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I miss my dad. I miss the annoying things about him, the way he called all the time, repeated the same things at least three times, how he said “and so, what I’m saying...”. I miss the stupid, gay, purple PT Cruiser, such a lame car for a man to own, and his lime green polos, and his awful, fucking awful, too tight white sweat pants. I miss getting stamps in the mail so I don’t have to buy them at the post office, and getting long, long letters that repeated themselves, hand written, every week or so in the mail. I miss talking about baseball, the conversations we should be having about Zito and the A’s. I hate that my dad didn’t get to watch the 2007 NFL draft. And there is no more crunchy and munchy, no more bullshot talks about how he can still jump rope, no more secret donut store, no more check in calls, no more “I don’t want to run up your phone bill,” no more dad, no more dad, no more dad.

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My dad is buried out in Dixon at the military memorial park out there. He said he wanted a military funeral, and the flag, the bag pipes, the “whole nine yards.” And he got it. I can hear the bag pipes, feel the wind blow my hair across my face, and I can see the silver box being taken away on some white trash cart to be buried under 6 feet dirt with all the other dads, sons, moms, and whatever other things are out there in the ground.

John Madden said in his hall of fame enshrinement speech that he thinks when the lights go out that all the bust start talking. The one thing that I can hope for my dad, is the in the lonely, dark depths of the underground, the other military men and women start talking. Sharing there stories and finding peace. And my dad is there, telling his stories, and finding peace.