Thirty years ago.
On a Sunday night thirty years ago, Diana and I drove from Columbus to my hometown. We spent the night with my parents.
We’d been married for seven weeks.
The next day, we drove them to Columbus for an eye doctor’s appointment for my dad. He was 74 and dealing with age-related macular degeneration. It was affecting his ability to drive, which is one of the reasons we drove them up. That, and neither one of them liked to drive in heavy traffic any longer. So we left early Monday morning for Dad’s appointment, took them back home Monday afternoon, and drove back to Columbus that evening.
Dad gave me one of our awkward hugs at the front door. Thanked me for making the trip. Told me he loved me. Gave me his trademark “Be careful.” Thirty years ago.
The next day, Tuesday, I went to work at a Sears Logistics warehouse where I spent the day loading trucks.
That evening, Diana and I went to Polaris Amphitheater for a Dan Fogleberg concert. We’d won season tickets from our apartment complex and got to see some great shows that year. Fogleberg was a favorite artist of mine, and “Leader Of The Band” was a favorite song. It never failed to make me think of my dad. There were furniture makers in the family. He wasn’t an only child (Dad had two brothers), and he never talked about doing anything too wild. Dad had joined the Air Force as a band leader and had played professionally with several orchestras. He earned his Masters and Doctorate in music along the way.
My shift ran long at work, so I missed the beginning of the concert, but I got there just as he started singing my favorite song. I stood by a pavilion post, basking in the memories that swarmed me as the music enveloped me.
Thirty years ago.
September 21st. Wednesday. Mid-afternoon. I was loading a truck at work, like I always did.
I got paged to take a phone call. It took me almost five minutes to get to the office, because there was no way to transfer the call to the loading dock. The warehouse was almost a mile long.
I knew immediately from the look on the secretary’s face that something was wrong. Hell, I’d known it when I got paged, because temps like me never got phone calls like that.
Mom, sobbing. Dad had collapsed. The medics started CPR and called for assistance as soon as they arrived.
They did CPR all the way to the hospital. Mom was still in the ER when she called me.
I sprinted from the office to the time clock, dodging a couple of forklifts, and supervisors on bikes. My supervisor was already there, waiting for me to fly by him. Launched myself down the stairs to the parking lot, skipping all five or six steps, hitting the ground at a dead run.
Diana was at her mom’s house, just five minutes from the warehouse. I’d dropped her there on my way in. I made the trip in two minutes, skidded to a stop in the driveway. Burst through the door.
“Dad’s collapsed. Heart attack. We gotta go.”
We ran back to the car and I flew across Columbus back to our apartment to grab a few things.
I remember we didn’t speak much on the way to the apartment, or as we were packing.
Once everything was ready, I called the ER to tell Mom we were on our way.
He was gone.
Thirty years ago.
I miss him like it was yesterday.
He only met one of his grandchildren, Oldest Son. He was four years old when his Grandad died.
At the funeral, we all sat in the front row right before the service. Dad was Lutheran. Oldest Son by that time was spending a lot of time with his maternal Grandma, who attended the Seventh-Day Adventist church. We were talking quietly during the prelude about how that was just Grandad’s body in the casket, and that his soul was in heaven. Oldest Son, in the honesty and sure knowledge that only a four-year-old could have, said, “And one day when Jesus comes back, Grandad will pop right back up!”
It was all Diana, my Mom, and I could do to not burst out laughing.
Dad would have hooted, I’m sure.
I always find myself looking back at family events that he’s missed. Seven more grandchildren. Three weddings. Genealogy victories. I wish I could have heard his reaction to some of the meals I’ve cooked recently.
The conversation with him (and Mom) over our RV journey would have been epic.
Dad was born in 1920. He’d be 104 years old if he were still around.
And I’m realistic. He had plenty of health problems, so I’d have lost him sooner rather than later. But like I told my mother-in-law at the reception after the service, I just wasn’t ready.
I miss you, Dad.
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