A Good Year for the Outlaw

I took a short sabbatical from blogging, as life was busy.

I decided this morning on my way to Canton that when I got home tonight, Monday, July 7th, I’d blog. Didn’t know about what. Just wanted to write something.

Then…BAM! My cell phone started going nuts at 9:10 this morning. I was in another office, and came back into mine to find three missed calls from relatives in Nevada. It didn’t strike me as being a good thing. And it wasn’t.

I lost my Dad today.

He was 68-years young, 6-foot-2, still muscular and thin beyond belief, no one had any idea something like this could happen. Struck down by a heart attack in his sleep, he apparently died without pain, and that is somewhat relieving to all of us. But no one thought this guy would EVER die. This guy, pardon the French but here it comes, was the toughest and strongest son of a bitch I’ve ever known, yet he never threw a punch in anger in his life, nor did he ever strike another man. He didn’t need to. He got his point across with words and looks.

Strong as an ox and equally stubborn, he had a stock car fall off the jack and onto his chest in the garage…and was barely bruised. He sliced open his hand so deep on a table saw one day we saw bones, and he didn’t miss a day of work. Carried full transmissions and bell housings from his garage across the street to my brother’s garage without touching the ground, Marlboro hanging out of his mouth the whole time. A 283-cubic inch Chevy blew up in his face in the late ’60’s, at a distance of about four inches (he was looking down the barrel of the carb), and he got metal shavings IN HIS EYES. While he wore dark sunglasses indoors for the next week, Mom, my little sister and brother and I had to close all shades, turn off every kind of light (lightbulb, TV, flashlight, etc.) except soft candles, and sit in the dark until the doc said he could try to see…and his vision was just as good as it was before.

He was a first-rate auto and truck mechanic, a top of the line refrigerator and air conditioner repairman, built many of his own houses, could basically do anything with any tool in any situation. In his late 20’s, he bought me a Gibson electic guitar, and he learned how to play the basics, too. In the 70’s, he bought one of those multi-function Wurlitzer organs, the kind you’d see on Lawrence Welk, the kind that could simulate almost any instrument, and he tought himself how to play that, too. He fished, he hunted, he rode and raced snowmobiles, he bought a travel trailer and went through the camping phase, he had to have a CB when that was the craze, he owned boats.

But as of today, five grown kids, ages 33-48, no longer have a living Dad. My Mom has lost her partner of 50 years, husband of 48. Fourteen grandkids lost a grandpa. My son, who just turned 18, lived 1,800 miles away from Dad, in Iowa and Illinois, for most of his life. Thankfully, he got to spend time with his Grandpa in late May, right after he graduated from high school. On Justin’s last day in Nevada, he and my Dad…his Grandpa…went fishing.

Dad and I talked often. More than most adults do with their parents/kids. Just two weeks ago, he helped me fix my car over the internet and telephone. Every time there was severe weather in the Midwest, my phone would ring, and he would ask, “are you gettin’ it?” He loved the Weather Channel, and he loved protecting his kids, even those over 40-years old and 1,800 miles away. He loved and protected his sons- and daughters-in law, and his grandkids, too.

Although we talked often and were very close, hugs and “I love yous” were uncomfortable and fairly rare. When we were together in person, it was a knowing nod, or a “who’s got the best handshake?” contest, and you just knew, “yep, that’s his way of saying it”. But at least, on Father’s Day, when I sent him – by email – pictures of the front end assembly he’d helped me fix without even seeing it in person, I finished the email with, “I Love You, Dad”. I remembered to say what I always wanted to, but rarely did. I know he saw it, and I know the feeling was mutual. He didn’t need to respond with those words, that would have been unnecessary. He didn’t need to say it, or write it back. I just knew it.

I miss him already.

Do me a favor, if you read this and you are lucky enough to still have a Dad…call him as soon as you finish reading it, or better yet, if you’re close enough, go see him. I’d appreciate it, and so would he.