My Father Has Passed Away

Some people touch your life so profoundly that words cannot do them justice.  My father was such a man.  He passed away last night after a second massive stroke.  As a writer, I will try to convey why this man was so special.  Dad was not easy on me and was particularly hard on my writing; being an editor and all.  He demanded that I represent my family and myself in a dignified way.  Having also done work in PR he would tell me that people will judge your intelligence and in fact, your entire being by the way you talk and write.  If you talk like a truck driver, people will think you are a truck driver.  As a result, from a young age we were expected to speak and act like adults, especially in public.  You were representing your family by way of your actions and no one was going to make the family look bad.  So it was that as a young boy we would have conversations about copy write law and parliamentary politics.  Poor grammar was not tolerated and don’t even think about swearing.  It was a policy I transferred to my own family and it still bears fruit.  I am constantly complimented on how well spoken my children are.  My oldest son even was hired for a job because none of the other applicants could speak as well as he could.  He thanked me and I thanked my father.  Dad was quotable.  Before leaving for college he gave me some sage advice.  “You’ll date two kinds of girls in college; the kind you take home and the kind you take home to your mother.  Stay away from the first group!  Never discuss politics or religion with your friends if you want to keep them.  Never drink with your boss.  They’ll wake up with a hangover only remembering what you said about so and so.  You can only compliment a woman on her hair and when you do so you ask, ‘Did you do something different with your hair?’  When you compliment a woman’s perfume, always say it is very subtle.”  He didn’t tell me to stay away from drugs until I was 19.  That was a given in our family.  He only spoke up after seeing a PSA.  Growing up I wanted to be him.  Every day he would put on his suit and go to work.  Whenever you asked him a question, he always had the answer.  He knew about everything from nuclear power plants to the workings of the Electoral College.  It also seemed like my father could do anything.   He could rebuild an engine or build a stereo.  He could build or fix a TV or electrically wire a house.  He could pour concrete and lay brick or plumb your house.  He could grow a garden or shingle a roof.  And for years he did all this with a heart condition and minor strokes.  What kid wouldn’t want to be him?  What I loved most of all, though, was when he would tell stories.  He would talk for hours and kept you in your seat the whole time.  I wanted to tell stories like him.  I wanted to have my name in print like he did by his editorials.  I wanted to be a writer.  He was a great man and the world has suffered a great loss, even if only a hand full of people knows about it.  To quote Dad, “To be published is to live forever.”  Well Dad, if that is true we never really lost you.

I will be out of the country for about a week and will not have any blogs during that time.  Please continue to support my Headtalker at  https://headtalker.com/campaigns/quest-for-the-red-sapphire/