Eulogy

My father died just before Christmas. I wasn’t ready to make the announcement to my friends during the holidays, partly because I didn’t want to face it all at once, and partly because sympathy condolences don’t mix well with holiday cheer. But, it’s the new year and now it’s time. 

Today I cried for him. I broke down a bit as I was writing this in my notebook at an Indian restaurant, Namaskar, in Koh PhanNgan, Thailand. Best Indian food in Thailand, highly recommended... also they politely ignored me crying into my Chai. Anyway, the point is, now it’s time to look forward in my life, but also, even though I don't feel ready, it's time to look back on his.

He was a good man. That might sound simplistic, but in this world it’s a bigger accomplishment, and a bigger compliment than most can achieve. He was a genuinely good man who would help those who asked, without any hesitation. In fact he usually tried to help you even when you didn’t need any help. Sometimes to the point of frustration. He was a good man.

The day after he died, peacefully in his sleep on December 18th I posted this on his page;

“My father died last night in Kampot, Cambodia. He... the most emotional things are the most difficult to express. I don't really know how at the moment. I have a pile of notes and scraps of writing piled on my desk and I'd decided to clean them up today, to type them and store them digitally... this was the first note I picked up at random. "I've never understood the rules of life. When I was about 10 or 11 years old, as we were driving down the rural Cascade mountain highway home, I asked my father to explain the different meanings of the stripes on the road. Why was there one white stripe on the side, yet double yellows in the center. He told me that it was illegal to cross the double yellows in the center. I said, but what if you do? He said you'll get a ticket. Not understanding that crossing the doubles just meant for passing other cars I asked what about if a deer jumps in front of you. I was serious, laws seem so arbitrary at times, it seemed a reasonable question concerning police enforcement. He just shook his head, not unkindly, and said use common sense. I thought, so, do you get a ticket or not?"

It is strange that I chose this scrap of paper as my first choice to clean the pile on the table. My father died last night. He was sleeping peacefully in his bed in Cambodia and by the morning he was no longer sleeping. It makes sense, it is common sense, we live and we die... but I still don't understand the rules of life.

A few notes later I found another scribbled, "write Dad a letter".

Dad, I write you now. A day late and a dollar short as they say. I just want you to know that you were the man I always looked up to, always idealized, even when I was old enough to know all your faults and vices. Please don't think that I didn't know what you were going through. I knew, I read all your letters and I know; I know you had a lot of guilty demons. I was never ashamed of the circumstances you got yourself into, mostly because your intentions were always good. You were ahead of us all, taking it one day at a time, living in the moment, and enjoying life. And for that I thank you. You never let your optimism go, even when there were times you should have. I wouldn't have it any other way. Know that I was always proud of you. Proud that you stuck around for us and didn't just take off after the divorce. Proud of all your business ideas and the way you tried your best to get us involved in your crazy ventures and keep the family together. I love you and I will miss you. I wish I had written you this letter telling you all this. I miss you, intensely miss you.”

That was a month ago. He was 68. He would have been 69 a few days later. He was born in 1952 and grew up in Calumet Park, on the south side of Chicago. He always had so many fond memories to share of his early years in Chicago. Many of his friends and family referred to him as Johnny (apparently also as Boomba in his early childhood years, a nickname I’ve only just found out about) although, the only name I ever called him was Dad. When looking through all his old letters and postcards to me, to all his boys, that was how he signed them; “DAD”. 

Dad left me his name, Johnny, and I hope I live up to it. I hope I can have the positivity, optimism, carefree enjoyment of life that seemed invincible to the forces of life obstacles. He had a joy that radiated outwardly to influence those around him and I challenge anyone to list his moments of sourness or anger... from my memory those stories could be counted on a single hand. 

The stories that are uncountable are the situations of him laughing wholeheartedly at the smallest of things, exclaiming with the greatest gusto at the most, apparently to me, the most mediocre of things, like the average greasy spoon breakfast plate at the local diner would become, “WOW, this is really good, what a good breakfast... You know... I really like this place!” Reading those words you can’t hear the deep conviction, that tone that makes you almost believe you’ve just discovered a hidden gem of culinary perfection in the two greasy over-easy eggs and bacons with a side pile of half-cooked hashbrowns (covered in his favorite condiment, ketchup). But that was his attitude, and if you let it, the meal would be changed by the willpower of his belief alone. When I was younger I would agree, yeah Dad, this IS delicious. Then I “grew up”, became jaded and “a realist”, and I would just see a couple average greasy over-easy eggs when we would go out to breakfast. I would try to tell him they were just regular eggs, but he would just smile knowingly and shake his head as if I hadn’t the palate to taste great food. It’s only now that I realize it isn’t the food that makes the meal, it’s the attitude of the company you keep... and his attitude added spices to everything in his life. I still have a lot of un-growing up to do.

“You can see nothing as a miracle or you can see everything as a miracle” Dad saw everything as a miracle.

Again, I hope I can live up to his name, his optimism, to his life perspective, and his child-like excitement at every miracle he witnessed, with even the simplest of novelties bringing the greatest joys. Those fancy-ass rootbeers he loved, that Ambita Amber, god, whatever he tasted was always an ambrosia bottled directly from the heavens just for him. And, he would always insist you try a drink, even if you already had. That was where his joy in life was found, in sharing those wonders with us, and I regret every moment I told him his miracle wasn’t a miracle but just a regular rootbeer, or an average hamburger, or just... something ordinary. It wasn’t ordinary at all.

If you knew my father then somewhere in your house you have a gift of his, a small token or trinket, or postcard, or flyer of some event that he passed along from somewhere he had been, or had wanted to go. I had so many I would regularly throw them away. I mean, I really couldn’t realistically keep them all. And, it was always guaranteed he’d send another. It was... I read somewhere that when a person gives a gift, it is not the gift that has value, but what the giver of the gift believes has value to you. kind of a version of “it’s the thought that counts”. Dad was a man who thought everything had value, and he loved sharing it, he loved experiencing life with everyone he was around.

Ah, but I was talking about his life journey. He was born in 52 but I don’t know that much about his youth. Well, some random stories, but too many incongruous to repeat them all here, and some I just won’t repeat publicly because he did have some moments of trouble making, but even those were mostly lighthearted; with his brother Dan, his brother Phil, or his sister Johanne. I hope I get to hear more of those stories. 

So, he was born in 52, grew up in Cal-Park, and then joined the army when he graduated high school. I don’t know much about his military time, he didn’t like to talk about it... but I do remember one story he told me that speaks of his personality and character; His drill instructor hated him during training because Dad would always wake up late and show up late to roll call, so the instructor would order him to run laps around the mess hall before breakfast, but most times he would be caught just walking around the mess hall instead of running, and then be ordered to PT. He would laugh when he told this story and say he was one of the most physically fit in the company. Still, apparently not everyone hated him, because he ended up stationed in West Germany during the Vietnam War. 

Ah, that does remind me of some stories my brothers related to me that I’d like to share. Well, one I will skip as it is a little terrible, although a little funny, and simply put- involved mortars training and unlucky cattle in a neighboring ranch pasture. The other story is about him patrolling with his military brethren around their post in the middle of winter. It’s about the little german town that was, with only a little detour, a good place to warm up and have a pint while on patrol. I don’t know the name of the town, and I wish I did, but the rumor is the people of that town came to know him and his friends quite well, because apparently they were in the pub more than on patrol. The last story of his military days involved his lieutenant coming up to the base entrance one night and my father stopping him for ID. The lieutenant had been a hardcase on Dad, perhaps for the rumors associated with the previous story, and so Dad decided to be a hardcase back. The lieutenant told him “You know who I am.” To which my father simply replied, “Can’t let you in without ID.” The lieutenant (and Dad) escalated the situation until the colonel was called out, who then sided with my father and gave the lieutenant some choice words for not showing ID.

After his military service he met my mother at a college in Florida. They fell in love and soon after moved to Chicago in the late 70’s, and very soon after that I was born. We moved around a bit, back to Florida where my brother was born, and then back to Chicago where my other brother was born. Those were some difficult times, in which both my parents and grandparents helped keep us fed, clothed, educated, and happy. I have many fond memories of those times that I will share in the coming days, weeks, years. Ha, I remember he worked at a health food store and they had a big shipment of yogurt come in near expiration, so, I remember he brought home boxes of yogurt and said, okay, we have to eat all these in the next few days. My lunch at school the next few days were consistently a PB&J sandwich and a dozen yogurts.

The next big chapter of his life was to move with all of us from inner city Chicago to a small mountain town in Washington State, hours from anywhere urban, and minutes from complete natural solitude. My father was an extrovert, a people person, and as there were only a couple thousand people in the whole countryside community of Darrington in 1988, it didn’t take long for all of them to know him, and for most to love him. Even after he moved, for a long time he considered the Windy-City his true home, so it is a great tribute to how much he loved his family for him to have left Chicago for that small mountain town. However, over the years he fell in love with the people, the mountains, the rivers and campsites, and the all-round town of Darrington itself. He even became town councilman for one election. I won’t say he was good at politics, only that his heart was in the right place. His heart was in Darrington. Later, over the years, even to this last year, that was the town, and the mountains, and the people he would show pictures of, talk about, reminisce over. I would hear him talking to everyone, anyone, and if they would ask him where he was from, his answer, the place he would choose to brag about, was always Darrington. 

After all us boys had graduated high school and moved away, all to California, he opened a brick-and-mortar bookstore in that town. Well, it was more of an antique-novelty store half filled with weird oddities and the other half filled with a large selection of outdoor adventure books. This was the beginning of Amazon and the timing wasn’t the best for opening a bookstore, but despite this, and despite the eccentric nature of the place, and despite all our pessimism about his chances of business success, I do think there was a possibility he could have made a go of it, if it hadn’t been for his car accident.

That was a tough time for us all. He moved to California after the accident, staying alternatively with my brothers and I, but California never really suited him and he moved back to Washington, and then around a bit... then, he made a final move to Thailand. I followed a few years later and also moved to Thailand... ah, so many stories in between, so many memories and details skipped over, yet here we are, near the end of the eulogy. 

The show must go on.

Last Christmas, 2019, he and I were in Phuket Thailand, walking around, smoking his cough medicine, telling stories... and then, just after Christmas he moved to Cambodia. It was supposed to be a temporary stay, a place he could reset his visa stamps on his passport for a few months so he could return to Thailand with a clean passport. It seemed close enough for me to visit in between time. Close enough for me to visit as long as the border remained open... but 2020 was not the year for that plan. 

He was in a motorcycle accident this last October. He kept reassuring us in the weeks leading up to Christmas that everything was okay. I knew it wasn’t. I didn't realize it was that not-okay. If he were still alive I am certain he would say that I did all I could, that we all did the best we could, and that he was proud of his boys. No matter what we did, or mistakes we made, he always said he was proud of his boys.

He was a good man. Nobody need say sorry for my loss, because it isn’t just my loss... we all lost a little bit when that joyful, laughing, carefree man left us. Instead of condolences, share a memory or a picture, tell a story, even a second-hand story, or even a story I might have told you about him... and, if I didn’t tell you a story about him, ask me... I have many, many good stories to share. And, if you didn’t know him at all, then just go out and do a kind thing for someone, or find something extraordinary in the ordinary and share it with someone... and no matter how much they tell you it is just a regular rootbeer, know in your heart of hearts it’s the best goddamn rootbeer that has ever existed.

You know... he would always pour his soda all the way to the top of the glass of ice, and when it filled right to the brim, with that last drop plinking down without spilling over he would have the greatest look of satisfaction. His eyes sparkled at things like that. Of course he loved sugar, so his eyes sparkled even those times when the glass didn’t fill right to the brim... but, there was a little extra sparkle when it did.