My Dad died on Halloween in 1988. It’s been 25 years, and I’d still give a great deal for one more day with him.
There’s too much that I don’t know about him. I know that he was in the Army, but I don’t really know what that was like for him, or how his experiences would compare to mine in the Air Force. I know he was married before he married my Mom, but I don’t know anything at all about those relationships.
My Dad was born in 1914, so he was 59 when I was born. He was from a generation that I didn’t get to know when I had the chance.
My Dad took care of me and my Mom. He’d wake me up every morning for school, and he’d drive me, even when the school was only a few blocks away. He was the stay-at-home parent. There was never any doubt in my mind that he loved me.
My Dad wasn’t perfect. He was an alcoholic most of my life. This led to some car accidents that I didn’t need to be a part of. It also meant that some of the meals he’d fix for us were extremely adventurous. To this day, neither my sister nor I can eat baked chicken.
There were a few times that my Dad said some things that were not particularly good for my self-esteem. I can recall him calling me stupid or “ignoramus” several times. At the time, I didn’t really think anything of it. I don’t hold it against him now, either. It’s just one of the ways he wasn’t perfect.
I miss him. I really wish I could introduce him to my family. I know he’d be proud of them, just as I am.