Talking with Dad
Two years ago, my Dad was losing a long, crummy, battle with cancer, dying at home in a rented hospital bed. His bed was in the addition on the East side of our house where the sun could shine in through big windows every morning. That’s how he knew it was morning. He lived on tubes for months, until, one day, he gathered us together for one last act as head of the family. He said it was time to remove those tubes.
I gave the eulogy at his funeral; he asked me to because I was a Toastmaster. And I did good for him. I did the very, best I could for him. I remember the last line… “next year Grandma Erna is going to have her best garden ever, because every day Grandpa is going to shine down upon it.”
Mom continued to live in that house. For strength and healing, she embraced her circle of friends from church. And we’d come up to visit. Sometimes stay the night. She loves a houseful of kids! The more noise the better. Even at night… when everybody snores! And sometimes, I’d sleep down in that addition where Dad died.
I’m expecting a visit, I guess. I’d like to see him again. There’s so much we could talk about, not that we ever did. Maybe he’d yell at me for still smoking(God knows somebody should)! I can hear him now, “I quit cold turkey when I was your age!” Yeah, and it still killed ya thirty years later. Certainly we could find something better to talk about than that! I mean, after all, we are
“Darn Vikings! Stupid Twins! But hey… how about that Tom Lehmann?” Dad always liked Tom Lehmann because they were both from
Even if I saw Dad and he said nothing at all, just smiled, well, just seeing him smile again would be pretty darn nice.
The grandkids would love to be part of this visit. Grampa was such a funny guy with them. He’d say “2 + 2 = 22” and they’d laugh, scream and protest “no, no grampa!” It was his granddaughter, my daughter Anna, who helped me cry out every last tear the day he died.
How stupid not to talk while we’re both still able! Shouldn’t that be a precious moment in every day?
We did have our memories. Dad used to pitch baseballs to Harmon Killebrew and Tony Oliva. I was Harmon and my brother was Tony O. He never did take his turn. He only pitched. We tore the hide off the ball! We fished and we camped. He worked, we played.
He really did quite a bit for us kids. And maybe now, I’m just being selfish. I want more. Maybe now that he’s gone, it’s easier to talk.
We’re going to my Mom’s this weekend. We’ve got a lot to talk about. It’s precious. And at night, well, the kids and I… we’ll sleep in the addition.
**Dedicated with love from Mark to his Dad… Morrie Sannes.
