Of the many things I’ve ever written, my dad’s obituary has to have been the hardest.
I wrote it at my mom’s house, bleary-eyed and tired from a week of spending time at my dad’s side in the hospital, rushing my mom around from place to place, and making funeral arrangements.
When I finished writing the obituary, I sent a copy to the funeral home, my pastor, and my family. Then I stared at the words that I wrote for a long time, not feeling good about them, at all.
They were accurate. They were short and sweet, like an obituary should be. But they didn’t tell the real story about my dad. I started to think about the years of his life, May 9th, 1931 – January 2nd, 2016, and my eyes focused on one thing: the dash between the years that represented his life.
That’s where the real story lived.
Last week I wrote about my dad’s death. This week, I’m writing about his life.
At Christmas dinner, he sat across from me and told me the same story he told so many times before, about a bad boss he once had at a Bank he worked at. After the man called him into his office and accused him of having bad credit, which he didn’t – it was a mistake, my dad told his boss off, the door slipping from his hand as he left his office, causing the entire glass room to shake so badly that everyone in the office stared at the boss as my dad walked off. We laughed at the story. The guy never questioned my dad again. My dad taught me to stand up for myself.
When my dad was a kid, he got a phone call from “the phantom” who wanted to fight him out in the woods “in twenty minutes.” He didn’t hesitate at all. He put on his cape, told his mom he would be right back, and went to the designated spot to rumble with the mystery caller. He ended up standing on a rotting tree stump which gave way and hurt his arm as he fell to the ground, but managed to scare “the phantom” who ran away. He never found out who the phantom really was. My dad taught me to be courageous.
A few years later, my dad and a friend somehow figured out how to rig their own broadcast radio station in his parent’s basement. What was supposed to be used for fun became a full-blown radio station as my dad climbed the tree in the backyard and brought an antenna with him, making his homemade setup the most powerful radio station in Anniston, Alabama, causing the FCC to knock on his parent’s door and make him shut the whole thing down. My dad taught me to take risks.
One day, while walking through the woods, my dad heard someone calling for help. He walked closer and came upon a cliff and saw a kid hanging off the side and holding onto a root, desperate for someone to help him climb up before he couldn’t hold on any longer. My dad saw the huge drop off and although he was scared, he found a way to save that kid’s life. When my dad pulled him up, the kid didn’t even say thank you – he just ran off, happy to be alive, but never to be seen again. My dad taught me that everyday people can become someone’s hero, if they choose to be.
When my dad was in the Air Force in the early 50s, he decided to drive home to Alabama one Christmas when he had some time to be away and a friend of his and fellow airman, who happened to be African American, was headed the same way. My dad offered him a ride and along the way, decided to stop at a bar. His friend said he didn’t think that would be a good idea because it wasn’t the “right kind of bar” and he was right. Although the bartender gave them a hard time, my dad insisted that he give his friend a drink. My dad taught me to stand up for what is right.
In the 70s, he went undercover with his cousin, the famous writer and journalist Jack Nelson, to investigate the KKK for a story his cousin was writing for the L.A. Times. Although he was just along for the ride, it was a thrill to be a part of that, and he created a memory and a good story worthy of being told over and over again. My dad taught me to do things, even if they scare you.
Looking through pictures for the funeral, I couldn’t help but notice how happy my dad was whenever he was around children. My niece created a wonderful video tribute to my dad and my favorite picture, one I’ve never seen, or maybe I just never noticed before, is of my dad holding me and looking so proud to be my father. He seems to have the same expression in every picture with his kids. I remember him sticking his tongue out at little children while in line at the grocery store and making goofy faces to try to make them laugh. What used to embarrass me now warms my heart, knowing just how much he loved little kids. My dad taught me to love my children.
I’ll treasure these stories and what he taught me in my heart for the rest of my life.
But this isn’t really about my dad. It’s about you. And it’s about me.
It’s the dash between the years that represents every challenge, every victory, and every story that we create while we live our lives here on Earth. The dash is a little character, easy to overlook, but represents our character, and who we are as people and how we live our days. It represents the decisions that we make and how we respond to the many everyday problems that we face.
The good news is that if you’re reading this, it’s not too late. You’re still living the dash. You can decide – right now – to pay more attention to your life and become more intentional about it.
That’s why I write. It’s my way of making sense of the world. It’s my way of keeping myself accountable. It’s my way of leaving something meaningful behind. My experiences. My stories.
When I have a tough decision to make, I’ll try to remember my dad, and I’ll try to understand that when it comes to decisions, sometimes the best choice is the one that will make for the best story.
Because it’s in the stories that we live and tell to others that leaves our legacy. It’s the stories that will forever live inside of the dash. And it’s the stories that will keep those we love in our hearts.