It’s Father’s Day and I’m laid up on the couch nursing a sore back I inherited from the old man. My dad passed away 8 years ago this year, in some ways it still hurts like he just passed away, but in most ways the pain and sadness have been blunted by the callous of time and put in to perspective through reflection of his life, my life, and how the two affected one another. Since Dad’s passing I normally tend to just ignore the frivolity of Father’s Day, and use the day to laugh to myself at the moments I choose to remember and ignore those I have no need to recall. But this year my own version of the genetically frail lower back that I watched lay dad out on the couch for days at a time when I was a boy has put me into a position of deeper introspection.
So here I lay, the smell of warm vinyl from a heating pad beneath my tailbone swirling through the air, mingling with the sound of Sean Connery’s contemptuously veiled Scottish brogue as he chews through the deliciously misogynistic dialogue of a 1960’s James Bond romp heightening my euphoric sense of nostalgia while deepening the small abyss in my heart since dad left.
As a result, I’ve found myself reading the eulogy I gave at his funeral, and looking at old I.M. conversations I had back then. It feels alien, though the people are familiar and loved. I apologize for the numerous grammatical errors, for even though I had 14 years to prepare this eulogy, I wrote it the morning of his funeral, a full month after he died, in roughly 45 minutes. It’s a first and final draft, honest and without polish. As I’ve aged I’ve found the list of advice to be more and more true throughout the years, and the sentiment at the end of his eulogy is the same today as the day he died. I miss you dad. I love you.
I’ve had 14 years to prepare for today. 14 years ago Dad went in for a cancer surgery that he told me he very well might not survive. That was all I knew. I didn’t know what kind of cancer it was, I didn’t know what his prognosis was other than dad telling me it was very rare and thereby less survivable. 14 years and countless surgeries, ailments and ding dong ditches at death’s door later and I can tell you with no uncertainty; 14 years of near misses doesn’t prepare a person for a phone call saying “I think he’s gone.”
I’ve felt I knew my father well. I’ve spent nearly half of my life helping care for him in one capacity or another, and learned all the ins and outs of the way he thought. I could predict dad’s reaction to every situation, and provided him things before he vocalized that he even wanted them. Yeah, I knew dad probably better than any other person on the planet.
And then he died. Tari and I found pictures we’d never seen. I read letters I’d never read, and I’ve heard stories from so many people detailing my father’s life away from me. Before me. This was a man I’d never met. He was full of life and laughter. He was the person everyone unanimously said could be counted on at any hour of the day or night to help a friend out. Lose your job and sitting at a bar at midnight drinking your lonely sorrow into oblivion? Call Bob. Not only would he come buy you a drink and sit until sunrise listening to you vent, but he’d drive you home, put in a good word for you for a new job, and still make it to work himself by seven. These sort of compassions I’ve heard over and over again. Need a ride? Car broken? In jail? Call Bob, he’ll fix it. A man who laughed and smiled and wasn’t crippled with disease or crushing fear.
I knew dad would give anything for Tari or me, but I never got to see my father strong enough for that selflessness to extend to anyone he called “friend.” For me, if I was asked to describe in a single image the visage of my father when I was growing up, the painting would be of a paunchy, bald silhouette slouched back in a sturdy wooden chair shrouded in a dense cloud of dirty orange, nicotine-soaked smoke glowing in the afternoon sun; a half-finished suitcase of beer holstered on the floor beneath his left arm, a half-dozen cans spread across the table, and the nasal, shrieking voice of Tom Leykis thundering loudly enough to drown out any attempt at conversation. That was the dad I knew growing up. His advice ranged from the practical, “be careful on the roads when it starts raining. We don’t get a lot of rain down here, and the drainage is bad on these streets, so that top layer of oil on the road starts floating and it’ll make the road slicker’n snot.” To the seemingly clinically paranoid, “Don’t wear shoes with white on them, because people in LA will stab you at any hour of the day for shoes with white on them.” Dad’s twilight years became a cautionary tale, a game of worst case scenario against the outside world, hermited in a dark condo next to the flood control. A condo that Tari and I spent countless hours trying to convince him SHOULD NOT be redecorated with chocolate brown carpet and burnt orange paint.
But the truth is, that wasn’t my father. Dad was a carefree, slightly thuggish boy, convincing his brother to swallow a life saver on a string so they could yank it back out and repeat ad nauseum. My father was a serviceman, fixing radios and playing practical jokes in the Air Force. He was an ambulance driver, rushing the helpless, and an occasional loaf of bread he’d mistaken for a severed head to the hospital. He was a beautician, full of charisma and charm and really great at an updo. He smiled all the time and made the ladies giggle. He was a garage door repair man, and so good at his job that even twenty years after he retired from the business, we’d still get phone calls asking if dad could come fix their doors. He was a postman, walking or driving the streets of the city he’d called home since the 50’s, and so loved by those people he served with, that today’s congregation is almost as thick with his friends from the post office as it is with family.
When I think about it… I could see who he was, if I had just looked. Every career he’s carried had one thing in common; he helped the helpless, even if it was in a small way. He kept pilots communicating, he carried the weak to help, he made you feel beautiful and special, he made the simple task of parking your car easier and more secure, and he finished off his career doing the same thing he started with, he kept people connected.
Dad’s most tragic sin was the distance he kept from the people he loved. I think everyone here has a story they could tell about dad’s isolationist tendencies. Some moment they’ve bumped up against that thick headed and stubborn wall dad erected around himself. To my sister and I, the dad we came to know these last fifteen years was something of a paradox; at once hungry for affection, and fighting it at every turn. He was so afraid of dying in a convalescent hospital alone that the two months he was in one following his hip surgery I don’t think he got a good moment of rest.
But dad, you didn’t die alone, and you weren’t in a convalescent hospital. You were home, in your bright and sunny apartment, able to keep an eye on the city you’d called home for half a century through windows that ran the whole of the wall and looked over the valley. And the people who made sure that everything you needed was tended to. Willy and Christian, two men of such compassion that they refused to sleep anywhere other than on the floor beside your bed so that you would never be alone and that anything you wanted, you would have immediately.
The Sunday night before he passed away dad had a great night. He was lucid and he could speak well enough for us to understand him. He made jokes and laughed. We listened to Ray Charles and told stories for hours. The man who lived the last 30 years in such fear and trying to figure out how you were going to screw him was gone. I thought he was really loopy from the medication. He was so full of unabashed laughter. But now, after hearing this last week of stories, I don’t think it was the medication. I think, for that three hours, I got to meet my father for the first time. I will always see those three hours as the last and greatest gift he gave me.
At the end of the night he finally asked for something I think he wanted to ask for his whole life. He he said, “Do you know what would be really great? If someone could just hold me.” So I did. And for about fifteen minutes dad just patted the back of my head and cried softly until he fell asleep. Dad passed away on a Sunday morning. After the divorce, Sundays were the days that Dad, Tari and I would do something together. He’d always have us call him at 8 in the morning to make the plan for the day. Dad passed away at 8:15. We would usually meet at 11 to do…. whatever our plan was, almost without fail. The mortician arrived for dad at 10:50. Dad had one last Sunday adventure for me. He left us at at time when he wasn’t alone, but wasn’t surrounded by his family or the people who had come to care for him, it was the only way he could protect us.
So what have I learned from the lessons of my father’s life and his death? Well, I don’t think dad’s done teaching me, but so far I think I’ve learned as much from dad’s mistakes and shortcomings as I have from his strengths and soul. Here’s what I’ve learned, I hope I got them right
• Live life without fear. Fear steals your life quicker than any death.
• Love without compunction
• Experience everything you can in life.
• Tell all your stories, or better yet, write them all down. The narrative of you is a book someone will want to read later on.
• Listen to all your parent’s stories, no matter how many times they’ve told them or how bored with them you might be.
• Always be available for a friend, the best things to be remembered for are being that dependable rock of a person and being a great listener.
• Laugh unabashedly. Laugh at everything. No matter how sad a situation is, there’s something funny in it. Find that funny, it’s so much better than being sad.
• And perhaps most importantly, be careful on the roads when it starts raining. We don’t get a lot of rain down here, and the drainage is bad on these streets, so that top layer of oil on the road starts floating and it’ll make the road slicker’n snot.”
I miss you dad.
I love you
As we approach Father’s Day, Simpson/Hemstead would like to remind you all to honor and give thanks to your parents the whole year. Both Hemstead and myself have lost our fathers as you all know, Jim when he was a teenager, and me when I was 32, but every year we still honor and celebrate the men unfortunate enough to call us “son”. We will continue to embarrass the shit out of you guys until our dying days. Don’t like it? Come back and stop us.
And it looks like I’ve just challenged our fathers to a zombie apocalypse. Exactly as the Maya have predicted. Get back in the house, Carl.
It’s a couple days early, but since most people don’t seem to make Simpson/Hemstead a weekend priority I thought I’d get this up today.
Happy Father’s Day to all the fathers of the world, but double especially to all the Simpson/Hemstead supporter fathers. Give your dad a big hug and a shitty bottle of English Leather on Sunday and tell him you love him.
Hemstead and I were brought together and bonded by three things in our lives:
- We both thought this chick Casey was a pretty groovy broad.
- We both have an unhealthy love of the Muppets.
- We both lost our fathers, and both men were postal workers.
As we’ve discussed before, Hemstead lost his when he was just a teenager, I was fortunate enough to keep mine until I was 32. It’s safe to say that neither of us would be the men we are today if it weren’t for the influence of our fathers.
Also, neither of us would be the men we are today if those men hadn’t passed away.
Basically, it’s their fault. And now Simpson/Hemstead will allow you to put faces to your displaced anger.
Happy Father’s Day, Fathers Hemstead/Simpson. Thanks for your guidance, your senses of humor and for helping us remember that time is fleeting.
So tell your dad you love him, even if your friends say it’s extra faggy. You could be growing up in a void without proper supervision and have ended up like Simpson/Hemstead, and I don’t think anyone wants that for their children.
Oh yeah! Also, thanks for knockin’ up mom so I could harass people with a blog, now let us never speak of it again.