Fatherly recollections and misplaced remembrance cues

“Doin’, dada? Doin’?”

Such was the line uttered by Jake, two-years-old at the time, while he stood by watching Pete (his Dad, my ex-husband) change a tire on an old worn-out Volvo we once owned.  ”Doin, dada? Doin’?”  So cute. Pete patiently explained what he was “doin’” and the quote was remembered and has remained a part of our family history, even though our family has long since broken apart. Isn’t it funny that every family has it’s famous one-liners? And we drag them out, along with the photographs and mementos, at each subsequent reunion. Cues that reproduce the laughters of old.

This past week, for me, has been marked by many reunions. I’ve had a Facebook account for months, but have only just begun to appreciate its attributes. Friends I knew in elementary school are now parents and grandparents. Boys I couldn’t have imagined in responsible roles when I was 17 are now well-rounded, easy-going men… and wonderful fathers, to boot!

I don’t find Father’s Day depressing or lonely now that my own father has passed on. I think of him, miss him, of course, and smile at those memories I can recall. Sometimes I look at the old home movies, and every Father’s Day I try to locate the letter I wrote to him while he lay dying in the hospital. Documented love while the feelings of loss were still fresh and appreciation of his love was at its most eloquent, I guess.

What does bother me about Father’s Day is that I’ve kept myself so far away from home that I can no longer readily transport my mind/heart to the old pieces of my life, including my relationship with Dad: I cannot recall a single kindness paid to my father for the wisdom he imparted, can only vaguely remember conversations or lectures delivered at times when he worried too much about me. Worse yet, I’ve made a conscious (though foolish) choice to relegate remembrance cues to files and sealed boxes and musty old trunks that moonlight as coffee tables. At what point did I decide that reaching back in time was too much trouble?

Nonetheless, I can still hear my Dad’s subtle laugh, his dry and unexpected wit. And while I don’t recall the origins of specific conversations, I still retain the essence of what he was FOREVER trying to teach his drama-prone daughter: Life goes on, the sun always rises in the morning, and there’s always hope. He was always an optimist (or so I perceived), and I like to believe I am too.  In hindsight, though, I suspect he also struggled with doubts, depressions, a few demons… like his drama-prone daughter.

My sister Shawn and I were with him almost constantly in those last two weeks of his life. I remember being struck by how tenderly Shawn attended to his physical needs, and how natural he was about receiving her loving care. I was impressed by both of them, those interactions. I learned a lot about Dad during that time, but…

I’m smiling now trying to make myself type a definitive statement about his character.  I almost wrote “he was a quiet, humble man.” And he was. But I laugh out loud remembering times when he fussed at kids walking through HIS front yard, surprised at his outward indignation over something so small.

This is a rambling piece of writing with nothing but random snippets of memory, all of which are incomplete. Too many Father’s Days have passed to crisply compose a specific story about my Dad. Although I’m making a note to myself: When I find myself resettled once again in a new location, I will make a point of putting those “remembrance cues” of loved one past and present out on display. Not a shrine of days gone by, but living moments that happened just a short time ago.

Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads out there.

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Meet my dad, Charlie Dilmore.

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