“He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.” ~Clarence Budington Kelland

The last full sentence I heard my dad say while he was still lucid was, “That’s okay. You can go now.”

Trouble was, I had just arrived. All the way from Virginia. And even though I knew it was the dementia talking and not my beloved father, those words still stir slivers of anguish in my heart.

Today is the one-year anniversary of his death. At first I thought it was a rather cruel twist of fate that the first anniversary of his passing was to land on Father’s Day but then I realized this was an opportunity to, once again, celebrate his life and his legacy.

Dear Dad … I Want to Remember

I want to remember how enamored you were with mom the moment you first laid eyes on her at the Dellwood Ballroom. How you made a pencil sketch of her face on the back of a ticket stub and and then asked if you could see her again the next night … and the night after that … and every night until you popped ‘the question’ just two months later.

I want to remember the story about your move from city to suburbs, you a city boy through and through, and how you mowed the lawn after work in your crisp white shirt and tailored tie much to the neighbors’ amusement and delight because those were your ‘work’ clothes.

I want to remember the ‘pencil man’ story and how Mom, disappointed that you weren’t as handy as her brothers, made the mistake of complaining about that lack to your mother who looked her straight in the eye and said, “He’s a pencil man.” Your tools were brushes, pen and ink, a canvas. Your art.

I want to remember spit drawings and splendid and the watercolor paints you kept in the glove compartment. Just in case. “No water? No problem. You can always use your saliva.” And I laughed and I wondered how many of those spit drawings you actually created or were you just pulling my leg?

I want to remember school projects and late nights at the dining room table and gum erasers and India ink and constructing cardboard portfolios so that the posters we labored over would make it to school unscathed.

I want to remember doughnuts. The doughnuts you brought home to us on Saturday mornings nestled in a snow-white box tied with string. Jets doughnuts. And the little cake doughnut you brought home from work each day carefully wrapped in a square of crinkly tissue paper. From the doughnut cart. “For you. I saved this one for you.”

I want to remember road trips and tune-ups and tire checks and the way you made sure that car was in pristine condition so that we would be safe. So safe.

I want to remember the excitement of packing that car long before sunup and then climbing into the back seat full of anticipation because watching the colors of cloud-swept skies as the sun took its rightful place on the horizon was a treat like no other. And how you planned the route around your favorite food stops even though we had a colossal cooler full of sandwiches and soda pop in the back seat.

I want to remember the Columbia Market: roasted peppers, pickled eggplant, pepperoni … and cheese that smelled like cheese. I want to remember how shopping with you was always an adventure.

I want to remember Tom’s place and the huge Hemlock tree that grew through a hole in his deck and his ENORMOUS garden and Concord grapes and how we’d pop those grapes into our mouths and suck out the sweet, slippery centers and then chew on the sour, sour skins until our eyes watered and our tongues turned blue.

I want to remember how you celebrated every meal that crossed your lips and the way you said, “It’s a party!” whenever we gathered at the table.

I want to remember the day you panicked when you realized you had locked your keys in the car and your nephew came to the rescue and told you to simply go back into the restaurant and ask for a hanger and you came back with a wooden one.

I want to remember the jobs I held in high school and how in the midst of a blustery Buffalo blizzard I would come out of work to find my ’67 Valiant, cleaned off, warmed up, and waiting, while the rest of the parking lot prowlers used brooms and brushes to remove more than a foot of snow that had accumulated on their windshields and all I had to do was slip into my car and make my way home over ice-crusted avenues to greet the snow elf who had, once again, warmed both my automobile and my heart.