memorial weekend
Over Mother’s Day weekend we held my dad’s memorial in Nashville. Having been brought up Quaker, he wanted his ceremony to be organized like a simple Quaker meeting where everyone is in a room together - Vanderbilt’s Benton Chapel - and if/when someone feels moved to speak, they stand up and speak. Beautiful. Simple.
There were friends, colleagues, students, family and neighbors represented. Once we’d all settled into the standing-room-only chapel, my brother, Michael, opened the “meeting” explaining how it would work and sat down. It got quiet, but not uncomfortably so. It was peaceful. Dad didn’t have many shy friends so the first person stood up to speak before even two minutes had passed.
Every story told was simultaneously personal and universal.
Even my beau, Chris, who never got to meet my dad in person said something. He wasn’t sure he ought to or not, but I told him he was moved to do so and should. So he told the room about the phone call they had discussing his blues band’s CD. Chris was used to dealing with girlfriend’s fathers who were… I don’t know, normal? boring? My dad had clearly listened to the disc more than twice and spoke knowledgeably about the influences he heard. Chris just nodded dumbstruck at the speaker phone and pushed out a “yeah, yes, that’s all true.” Then dad asked about another group, but Chris admitted he hadn’t heard of them. Dad replied, “You don’t know anything about music.”
Staying true to the spirit of the gathering I didn’t plan what I’d say, but I knew I’d say something. I am my father’s daughter, after all. (Boy did he love to talk.)
I’ve never lost anyone so close before. Relatives, even friends, have passed away and it hurt to lose them, but this is different. Dad and I talked a lot, at times more than once a week and, as with mom, we’ve always been incredibly open and honest. I relied on getting his voice at the other end of the phone at even random moments. Like the time in the middle of a dinner party I had a question about Charles Shaw brand wine I knew he could answer. ~ He and mom would definitely have been my “lifelines” on whatever game show I might be on. ~
Feeling the way I do now, I have empathy for people who believe in the persistence of spirits. It’s hard to come to grips with the idea that I’ll never, ever see him again. And it’s a comfort to think he’s still with me, with all of us, enjoying the experience of life without the hassle of a physical body that was so consistently in pain. For those who die especially young I imagine it’s important to hope they’ve moved on to someplace better and we don’t like to think that their short life was all they got.
Just after he died I had a dream where we were chatting like usual and he was sympathizing with some rant I was on. It was just like old times and felt so real. I marveled at this saying to him, “I didn’t think we’d ever get to talk again after you died.” He responded saying, “Yeah, that’s a common misconception.” Awesome. I still dream about him at least once a week, and think of him every single day.
But much as I love, love, love horror films and ghost stories and I dig the camp of Ghost Whisperer and the visions on Medium, and much as I enjoy the pleasant comfort of thinking dad is in “heaven” or something now, I don’t actually believe in those things. Again, I am my father’s daughter. He called himself an agnostic and true to being an educator, he was a realist. I am right there alongside him. He lived an amazing life and now he’s gone.
All that said, and whatever you may or may not believe, I think you’ll agree that we live on in the memories of those who loved us. And he has a lot of those.