My father died twenty-four years ago today.
As I drove to the airport this morning — I'm on a short trip to San Diego — my mind drifted back to him and what he was like.
I don't think of Dad often anymore, and when I do it's mostly superficial stuff: Dad was fat. His hair was wild and wavy. He could be gruff. He was funny and had a contagious laugh. Sometimes he wasn't a very nice guy. Sometimes he was. But it's tough to remember what Dad was like as a presence, you know?
What I remember most about him was how Dad could do anything he set his mind to. This isn't nostalgic hero worship. It's how he actually was. My father could teach himself to do anything he wanted. And he wanted to do a lot.
A Self-Made Man
I'm not sure where my father's love of learning and experimenting came from. His parents were a simple, devout Mennonite couple.
When I knew Grandma and Grandpa, they managed a small farm. They had milk cows. They raised blueberries. They grew and canned vegetables. Grandpa cut his own wood. He'd been a janitor at the local high school, but by the time I was around, he was retired. Every night, he and Grandma sipped Sanka and played Scrabble. Their existence was simple, ordered, and serene.
My father wasn't simple. His life wasn't ordered. He was not a serene man. He was complex. He was messy. He was boisterous. He was a force of nature. (I come by my ADD honestly.) He had many interests, and he liked to indulge them all. [Read more…]