My dad

My dad was born in 1944. My grandfather was too old to serve in WWII, so unlike many of my friends, my dad (and my mom) were not baby boomers. My dad grew up in a small town. He went through high school in that small town. He met my mom in that small town. They married; twelve years later they divorced. Some grudges were held, but it was 30-some years ago. Times healed some of the wounds.

My dad stayed in the small town while my mom, brother, and I moved around the state, but we always went back to that small town. That's where family was. Holidays, summers, school breaks were always in the small town.

My dad's house was a big, white turn-of-the-century house. I remember when he bought it. He was so excited to provide a home, albeit part-time, to my brother and I. He almost didn't get it. Someone was trying to outbid him. Someone who wanted to turn it into apartments. The family who owned the house chose my dad. Their parents had raised a family in that house and they wanted to continue that tradition.

The house had a story. The man who built it was a handymen in town. In his garage he had a list of people in town who he had worked for or with. One of them was my grandfather. Not my dad's dad, my mom's dad. I used to stare at the yellowing paper and at grandpa's name. I missed him. Also in that garage was a make-shift bathroom; it wasn't pretty. The former owner had strung a heavy wire from the house to the garage. When you pulled on the cord on the backporch, it made a clanging noise in the garage. The former owner obviously loved his garage. My dad painted the house yellow and later gray. He took the clanging bell out of the garage (much to my dismay).

The house was on a corner lot and my dad tenderly mowed the lawn with a John Deere rider mower. I tried to mow it once, but I didn't do it in straight lines -- I wasn't allowed to mow the lawn anymore. My dad helped my brother and I find our first cars. We would back our cars into the backyard to wash them. Doors open, windows down, stereo blaring. My dad loved cars. He respected cars. He had too many cars, but he loved all of them.

Every fourth of July my dad had a celebration. He had prime seat for the parade. He'd fire up the grill and fill every cooler and refrigerator with cold beverages. It seems like everyone in town would stop by for a burger. When I got older the cold beverages turned into a keg of beer.

My dad had this recliner -- A Lazy Boy. It is a terrible chair, but he wouldn't part with it. I used to sit in it when I was a kid, wrap myself up in a blanket and watch TV. In the summer I would have to wear jean, a sweatshirt, and use a blanket when I was in that chair--it was directly in front of the air conditioner.

My dad got remarried. His new wife, my stepmom, brought a new light to his life. And two kids. Boys. They brought new life to the house. They tore out the inside and made it the way they wanted it. It was nice, but it wasn't what I would've done, but they loved it. I watched my new little brothers grow to become adults in that house. We had holidays in that house.

My brother got married and they had babies. Three with one more on the way. I watched the babies become small children in that house.

My dad tore down the old garage and built a newer, bigger garage. It could fit two cars. It was heated. It had a tv with cable. There was a fridge. He installed a phoneline with a cordless phone. He began to spend more time out there. Need to find him? Look in the garage. Once the new garage was built, everything happened in the garage: graduation, celebrations, the welcoming home of my younger brother from Iraq... When I was home for the holidays (or anything) at some point we always ended up in the garage drinking crappy Busch Light... because that is what my dad drank. It was kind of like the spirit of the previous garage was still there. It was the same garage, just younger.

The garage was his solitude. If he wasn't in the garage he was doing something or helping someone in town. He was from that town. He was that town. He knew everyone.

He also loved The Lake. His parents built a cabin at The Lake in the early 1960s. I spent many of my summers there with my grandmother after my grandpa passed away. We swam. We played. Once when I was older, I skinny dipped with some friends. I love The Lake, but I haven't been there in years. My dad loved it, too. When my grandmother was ill, my dad bought it from her. He painted it, built a new porch, and added a heater so it would be used year-round. Aside from the garage, The Lake was his solitude. It was where he went to get away.

Yesterday morning my dad died at The Lake. I won't go into details. But he passed away. My dad was stubborn and there were definite events and causes of his death, but that isn't important right now. Right now I don't have my dad. I loved my dad; I respected my dad... but I never told him that enough. I hope he knew. We fought a lot. I hope he knows I got so mad at him because I cared about him.

I've never lost a parent before. I can't even begin to explain how it feels. It isn't like when my friends died. This is deeper. This is surreal. I feel old. I feel like a grown up, but not in a good way.

I am going to miss my dad. I'll even miss our fights. The years of fighting and debating with my dad helped me develop my politics, my world outlook, and my opinions. They may have been different from my dad's, but those late-night debates as a teenager had a big affect on me.

I am going back to the small town but it won't be the same knowing he isn't there. I don't know what it will be like to walk into the house without him. I don't know what it will be like to sit in the garage without him. I used to stand behind him and put my hands on his shoulders. I would give anything to do that again.

So, here's to my dad. I miss him. I love him. I respect him.

I wish he were still here.