THEY ARE CALLED CLICHÉS FOR A REASON

HUNTSVILLE, ALABAMA - march 12, 2010

I woke the morning of March 12, 2010 facing an uneventful Friday that I previously crafted with a light schedule and the hopes of an early start to my weekend. The highlight of my day was a meeting that would wrap before noon followed by as much, or little, office time as I was up for. As I sat in that Southern California meeting, I had no idea my day would end two thousand miles away and 24 hours later in Huntsville, Alabama.

Around 11:00 AM my brother called me. He never calls and although I was in a meeting that one wouldn’t think of interrupting for personal business, I knew I had to answer it. I excused myself and did. My heart sank and for the first time I knew what it was to have a lump in my throat. I announced to my clients my father had just passed away and I needed to leave at once.

Once in Alabama, we immediately met with our stepmom. At 18 years younger than my dad, she has always been more a sister than parent. Nonetheless, they were together for more than 30 years and loved one another deeply. This was a reeling loss for us all. We huddled together and quickly started planning for my father’s memorial.

Time is always in short supply when so much must be done. Meetings with the funeral home, church, cemetery, and a jeweler. We located a bagpiper, contacted the VA, and local Law Enforcement for honor guards and escorts. There were announcements to make and eulogies to write. Our heads were spinning because we wanted every last detail to be just so.

My father was a veteran, fiercely patriotic, and once told me he loved the reverence he’d witnessed at southern funerals. We wanted to provide him the same. Details needing months to plan had to be secured in a matter of days. Our family in California and Arizona needed to book their arrangements, too.

The pressure was on as we worked around the clock. By late Tuesday we had nearly completed our herculean effort. Only a few lingering items remained and they were handled the following morning. Everything was now in place to celebrate my dad’s life.

With nothing more to do we had a couple of days to just sit, wait, and anticipate the slow stream of family heading due east. I found it all quite curious. That is to say, the ebb and flow of such a life changing event.

One minute you’re rushing outside, within, and at the center of a vast emotional storm. Then, like that, everything is in place and it’s silent. Next, comes the realization and impact of your profound loss. It became the perfect opportunity for me to reflect on the dynamic my father and I shared.

First, he was only my “Father” on the third Sunday of every June. We were close. He was always “Dad” or “Daniel” if I ever got Victorian on him. As the years passed, we would talk several times a week. I relish that in my youth he gave me so many musical influences that I still enjoy today.

When I was a kid I wanted to drive the cars he drove and eat the exotic things he ate. He was the coolest guy I knew and my friends weren’t shy in reassuring me that he in fact was! It was sweetly ironic that as we got older the roles seemed to reverse.

Dad took to the music I liked and even followed the same sports teams I did. Despite the miles that separated us we would be on the phone watching the same game and either cheering or cursing our teams’ successes or misfortunes. We always knew better than the coaches and were never at a loss for words in our expressions of joy or despair.

A few months shy of his 71st birthday, he was lost ridiculously young. Life was generous by ensuring I would get some very rare one-on-one time with him within weeks of his sudden and tragic passing. Dad was in California visiting his brother and I ended up having him all to myself for four glorious days. We listened to music, shot the breeze, and at one unforgettable moment he even looked me in the eye and told me how proud he was of me. What more could a kid want to hear from his hero?

The day before he passed away was the last time we ever spoke. It was a typical call for us. I asked him if he had the chance to take his boat out on the Tennessee River for some bass fishing. He asked me about my kids and especially my daughter.

There was no agenda and no reason to rush. It simply was a father and son slowing down just long enough to catch up. This call ended the same as they always did when I would tell him “I love you buddy” and he would always respond, “I love you, too Gregor.”

There hasn’t been a day that’s passed that I don’t think of him or how much I love him and miss our time together. We were blessed with a rich life together that I wish we could continue to share today. I’ll always cherish the time I did have with my buddy.

I’m so grateful that I have no unfinished business with him and that my only regret is I didn’t have him here with me for even one more day. I have a saying, “They are ‘clichés’ for a reason… BECAUSE THEY’RE TRUE!” Over and over my head repeated, our tomorrows are never guaranteed. I am so very glad I made the most of every day I spent with my Dad when he was with us.