Capturing My Dad
A tribute to my Dad
Growing up, I would often overhear my dad bragging about me to someone. Telling them of my latest achievements in sports, or academics, or even some silly, little thing I did like reading a 1,000 page book, or riding my bike to work.
I would cringe with embarrassment, and would often worry about the person on the other end of it feeling bored or annoyed by my dad touting his daughter, once again.
As an adult and as a parent myself, I now look back on his proudness with such a tender heart.
He could not help himself. It was his love language. He unapologetically wanted to express his pride in me.
I see it as such a lovely quality about him now.
I catch myself doing this too—shamelessly bragging about the people I love.
My dad is uniquely himself—If you know him you will know exactly what I mean.
There is no way to peg him or group him or label him.
He is a dichotomy.
On the one hand he is the toughest, bravest, strongest, person I know.
Formidable.
You would want to think twice before you antagonize him.
He does not care what you think of him.
He gives no “Fs” as they say.
He will, ardently, unwaveringly, stand by his beliefs his truth, his heart.
He is also, artistic, tender, generous, kind.
The softest heart.
All bark, and no bite.
Would do anything for you.
A true character.
When I was little and in pre-school, each morning when he dropped me off I would ask him to touch the ceiling of the entryway. I can recall thinking, in my little mind, how damn amazing it was!
Imagine that? My dad can reach up, with no effort, no tippy toes, and touch the ceiling. I wanted everyone to see it.
I wished everyone would say, “wow your dad can touch the ceiling and isn’t that “F-ing” extraordinary!!”
I think this is when I first started seeing my dad for the giant he was—not only in physicality, but in mind, spirit, heart, intelligence.
Back then my dad stood 6’4” tall. He was long and lanky. As I grew older he started to grow some muscle, which wasn’t easy for him— but he worked hard at it.
He had a weight lifting unit set up in our basement and I remember lots of wheat germ and sardines. (Not sure if either of those helped grow the muscles, but I recall them nonetheless).
At some point in the 80s, He grew a thick mustache, shaved off his beard and cut his long, hippy-style, hair into a buzz cut. If you saw him, you would immediately be just a bit intimidated—the way you are when a motorcycle cop pulls you over.
He commanded respect.
Yet, inside the four walls of his own home (and yard), you would find him painting, writing poetry, cooking, gardening, reading, watching interesting documentaries and listening to all forms of music—classical, country, The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, John Lennon (after the Beatles broke up), Elton John.
Boiling chicken for his little dog who has a sensitive stomach.
Feeding the birds, the squirrels, the neighborhood cat.
Studying photography. Inventing things. Bee Keeping. Teaching himself French or how to play the Peruvian Pan Flutes.
Always tinkering about. Experimenting.
Fixing things, building things.
Forever curious and eager for knowledge.
On weekend mornings, as a very young kid, my Dad and I would put on gigantic, early 80s-style, headphones (why are they called headphones and not earphones btw?) and listen to that music I mentioned.
Lying on the living room floor, I was transformed by it. I knew it was special, a gift, something lucky.
He, pointing out the guitar in the background, or the drum solo, or the vocals, or the way the musicians arranged the music in a certain way and brought it all to life for me.
Pointing out the art, the creation, the absolute miracle music is with tears in his eyes because he was so moved by it.
He gave this time to me. Passing on his passion and appreciation for music, the importance of it.
When I hear any of this music now, the songs from my childhood— it strikes me that he is in the music.
He is the music.
My own eyes fill with tears.
He has, somehow, embedded a piece of himself there for me, in the music, the songs, the lyrics—where I will always be able to find him. Forever. No matter what.
He will be in the music waiting for me. With tears in his eyes.
You will often see my dad with tears in his eyes. Trying to finish what he is saying through a lump in his throat.
Pausing to collect himself.
He is the type of person who is keenly aware, at all times, of the heartbreak, the sadness, the tragedy, the beauty, the miracles, the virtuosity, the fortunes of life.
He is moved by everything. Touched by both the grief and sorrows and by the beatitudes in all things.
He taught me to be not just a hard worker, but to be the hardest worker at whatever I did.
Anything worth a damn in this life will always take hard work, he would say. There’s no shortcuts, no getting around it.
The only way is through.
He is and always will be the best person to shoot the shit with, as they say. There is no topic off limits. Our conversations wander into dusty, cobwebbed corners, nooks, crannies, mysteries, enigmas, truths, 300 year old book stores.
He was and still is a night owl, but yet, somehow, a morning person at the same time. The dichotomy of him showing up even in his sleep habits and patterns.
I remember staying up late at night, as a young teenager—the owl in him out, telling my dad all of my secrets, and heartaches, the things that were frustrating me, worrying me, making me angry, or sad.
What I was struggling with.
He would always remain calm and offer great advice—the kind of advice a wise old philosopher would give.
Usually, that kindness and honesty is always the best policy and would win in the end.
Always giving the BEST pep talks. (I wish I had them all recorded to listen to again and again and again).
Nobody could light the fire within me, better.
He would often laugh at me during these talks. His laugher would frustrate me sometimes, Why isn’t he seeing how serious this is?
His laughter, taught me the virtue of laughing at myself. To not take myself so seriously.
That most things in life can be a comedy if you can view them through the right lens.
Transforming the worst, trivial dramas in my life into a hilarity. A sitcom.
He has always loved to laugh. Has the best sense of humor for most things.
People, most of all, make him laugh. Their follies, their human-ness. The silly things they do.
He, in fact, loves people in all their various forms, making friends wherever he goes.
Growing up I would sometimes go to the grocery store with him (he was the grocery shopper in our household) and we would be there for, what seemed like, hours talking to all of his friends—the cashiers, the baggers, the shelf stockers.
What’s funny is his example, his habits—they wore their grooves in me. I, too, have friends at the grocery store, the restaurants we go to most, the places I frequent.
Funny how our parents, the people who love us and shape us, live on in us.
How one day you are driving in your car and you chuckle while you wave at all of your neighbors as you drive by. Your kids in the back seat tease you for this.
And suddenly, you remember teasing your dad too, for the very same thing—that silly habit of chuckling while he waved at the neighbors.
The big and the little things—becoming a part of you, living on.
The treasures and wealth of a person’s essence to be inherited by the next generation.
Tiny seeds planted, unknowingly, coming to fruition as you age.
My dad is that certain, and particular brand of person who will help.
He is that hero they say to look for in a difficult time. In the fires and the quakes.
When my first husband was sick with cancer, it was my dad who made green, superfood juices, and researched supplements, vitamins, and healing foods, books on nutrition and overcoming disease and would gently—so carefully, leave them on our front porch.
The green juices in mason jars, glowing with his love and concern.
It was my dad’s arms that my first husband took his last breaths in.
While the damn in my heart broke wide open.
It is my dad I see each day in my home, in the chandelier he installed ten years ago,
in the closet door that once came off the hinges that he fixed,
in the precious wainscoting in my son’s bedroom he helped me install when I was pregnant and full of dreams,
in the house numbers on the outside of our home that broke his favorite drill,
the brass toilet paper holder we had to have, but had no idea how to hang.
It is my dad who I hear in my head cheering me on each day.
Bragging about me.
Especially during the difficult times.
Making me remember to laugh at myself,
see the comedy,
reminding me to always work hard,
stand up for what I believe in, my truth,
to be kind, gentle, honest but also to be tough when I need to be,
to let love lead you,
to use creation as a way to grieve, heal, express myself,
to seek mastery and knowledge,
to love and appreciate art and music and people and beauty,
to also appreciate the tragedy and sorrow,
to help,
to always choose to be a hero in this life.
What a beautiful tribute to your Dad, Carly! I loved reading all of your stories about him ("softie" vs. "badass" and everything in between 😉). The pictures are priceless! You certainly hit the jackpot in the Dad category too!❣️
Beautiful!