Wednesday, October 8, 2008
This morning was to be the last time I’d see my Dad alive. We both knew it, and as unpleasant a situation as it was, we had found peace within it. Dad’s sisters, brother, and niece were due to arrive in the afternoon, and I knew he was looking forward to seeing them. He was comfortable, happy, and very glad to be back in his own home with his dog, Ricco, continually stepping all over him as he lay in bed.
I packed up my things, and talked to Dad. We called my wife and son, and they had a chance to talk with him a bit. It was hard to understand him without his teeth, but I got choked up when I heard Dad telling my son that he loved him, as loud as possible, while my son chattered away on the other end.
All too soon, it was simply time for me to leave. I came in to talk to him one last time.
“Hey, did you find a way to get that scooter home?” Dad began.
“Yeah, Dad. I hired a guy to bring it to me.”
“That’s good…I wanted you to have it. Don’t get cocky, though…it’ll throw ya.”
I smiled at that. How could I not? Dad’s still Dad, and that’s just how he is.
“Yeah, I’ll be careful. I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too.”
“Say hi to your family for me.”
“OK. You be careful.”
“I will.” I laid my cheek on top of his head as I had many times during the last week, but I let it linger there for nearly a full minute, just letting the feel of him seep into me for one last time. I kissed his forehead, squeezed his hand, and left.
“Bye, Dad.”
And that was it. I picked up my stuff, hugged and kissed my Mom goodbye, and let my brother drive me to the airport. There was a wrong turn in there somewhere, but luckily, my brother had his iPhone, and managed to get me there more or less on time with the help of Googlemaps. I passed through security, sat in the waiting area, called my wife, read my book, and basically tried to focus on all the everyday things going on around me.
I wasn’t heartbroken, or angry, or even really sad. No, instead, I was filled with gratitude. I had spent the last week with my father, and we had the chance to express our love as father and son. I was able to help him, to be there when he needed me, and to let him know that we would be OK after he had gone on his way. We were both at peace.
The first flight was short, and I promptly dozed off, so I don’t even remember that time at all. The second flight, from Chicago to Houston, was far more memorable.
I had been reading, dozing, thinking, and watching music videos on my mp3 player. The sky was a beautiful clear blue above us and hazy below. At some point, I woke from an almost-nap, and I saw the flight attendants handing out drinks. While I waited for them to get closer, I pulled out my mp3 player again and started watching my favorite Kelly Clarkson and Cathy Dennis music videos for the millionth time, and I noticed that I took particular pleasure in them, more so than usual. Part of me was thinking about my Dad, and I was turning everything over in my mind, wondering how this whole experience with him might affect me. How will my life change after this?
With that question ringing in my mind, I immersed myself in the sheer pleasure of my favorite songs and videos, cheesy as they are. Slowly, I became aware of an emotion building, swelling within me to the point of bursting with it.
It was joy. Pure and simple…it was joy.
It was if all the happy memories of my Dad, all his laughter, funny stories, wisecracks and practical jokes had joined together, and I felt that massive rush of joyful emotions urging me to fling myself headlong into the next 40 years of my life, and beyond.
“Live…” my inner voice said. This is a voice to whom I listen closely, for it seldom speaks in terms this loud, this clear.
“Live with joy, and adventure, and purpose. Live with love so that you can share it with others. Live with strength, so that you can help yourself, and those who need you. Live…so that you can look back one day with the quiet pride of a life well-spent, people well-loved, and other lives touched deeply by your own. Live…”
And tears rolled silently down my face as I sat there on that plane. What a gift my father had given me.
It’s a funny thing, but that little voice in my head sounds a little bit like my Dad, except that I know for a fact that he’d never say anything remotely like that. He’d just tell me to get my ass up off the couch and go plant some tomatoes and cayenne peppers.
But maybe that means pretty much the same thing. I’ll try it out and see.
Love you, Dad.
The Funeral
My father, William W. McClendon, Jr. was buried in the Paynetown Cemetery south of Greenville, TX, on Wednesday, October 15, 2008. He has passed away on Sunday, October 12, at the ripe old age of 80 years and one day.
Did you know that, if your wife drives like Mario Andretti, you can make it all the way to Greenville from Katy in exactly 4 hours? It was most impressive, I must say.
We left that morning a bit late, and there was bad weather in Dallas that slowed us down to about 75mph, so we were unable to visit Dad in the funeral home. I was told by my brother that he looked fabulous, “10 years younger…they even trimmed his nosehair.”
Wow. They really deserved a tip for that.
By the time it became apparent that we’d never make it to the funeral home in time, we called ahead and let Mom know that we’d just meet them at the cemetery. In the meantime, we were out of gas from the frantic drive. We headed towards the grave site with the intent of finding a gas station on the way, changing into our nice funeral clothes, and then hanging out until time to start.
There were no gas stations out there. None. Cows, chickens, and goats, yes, but gas stations? Nope.
Our car was on Very-Very-Empty, so we decided to head for the nearest town on the map, which was Quinlan. Nice place, once you find it. We coasted into the first gas station we saw, gassed up, changed clothes, and made it back to the cemetery with 15 minutes to spare.
It was a small turnout, but that was expected. Most of the folks who’ve known Dad were up in Indiana and couldn’t make the trip, but his Texas folks were all there. Mom was there, sad-eyed, but with that quiet strength that I’ve always come to expect from her. She’d slept on the drive down with my brother and his fiancée, and she was ready to get things moving.
There was a green tent over Dad’s coffin, and some Astroturf covered the ground so that the few chairs provided wouldn’t sink into the soft, damp earth. The sun had come out, and there was a quiet, beautiful serenity to the tiny cemetery that housed my grandparents and great-grandparents, and would soon keep my father’s remains as well. One of our relatives solemnly picked up his guitar and played a beautiful acoustic “Amazing Grace”, and I’ll never forget how his soft, gentle voice floated over us. One of my cousins gave a short eulogy that we enjoyed…there were sniffles at times, and overt chuckles at others. Dad was a character, yessiree. And well-loved. A sermon from the presiding pastor followed, and after a final prayer, the funeral director quietly knelt in front of us to speak with Mom.
“This concludes our service,” he whispered to my Mom. “Would you like to stay to see him lowered?”
Mom gently replied that she did not, stood up, and started walking towards the car. She was done, friends. She had loved my father for nearly 40 years. She had said her goodbyes, and it was apparently time to get the heck out of Dodge. We trailed behind her, hugging long-lost relatives and thanking folks for coming. Mom just kept on walking, so we hustled to catch up.
It’s a bit blurry after that. We went to Aunt Sissy’s, and Mom dutifully handed me the scooter keys and a heavily wrapped package that could only be one thing: the bedpan. I saw her crack a smile, then, and I knew she’d be OK. Mom changed clothes, packed her bags, and piled in the car with my brother and his fiancée 2 hours later, headed for home. We stayed longer, hung out with family and laughed and talked about Dad, about other stuff, and just enjoyed catching up. There were no more tears. My father had moved on, and that’s OK.
On our way home, we stopped and took some pics at the cemetery. Here’s me at Dad’s grave…sorry, it’s a bit blurry:
We’re home now, and I’m in the process of flinging myself headlong into the next years of my life. I feel like I should follow Dad’s example, and get busy with it all. Mom’s hanging in there…she had some rough moments yesterday when she had my brother clear out Dad’s garden in the back yard. She said that she didn’t want the rotting vegetables to attract animals. Dad’s tended a garden ever since I’ve known him, and I know that seeing the plants pulled up and disposed of was extremely difficult for Mom. Even so, she’s a strong woman with an awful lot of stuff to do. She’ll keep on keeping on, as they say.
So there you have it. To be honest, I’ve written every word on this blog over the last month with completely selfish intent…I wanted to get everything down somewhere so that I’d remember it always. However, I also wanted to keep my friends and family updated on my Dad’s situation, since many of you asked to be kept in the loop.
What I didn’t expect was for so many of you to let me know that my blogs were meaningful to you in some way. To you folks, I must say a humble “Thank you.” I’m very glad that I could do anything to help anyone feel better during this time when folks who love my Dad were hurting. Writing all this has helped me to get through it too, so I’m happy to share.
So go…spread the love. Enjoy your time here on earth. Love someone deeply, pursue a challenge, take a risk, and trade every day for something wonderful and amazing. Love to you all.
Rest In Peace, William W. McClendon, Jr. and thanks for everything.
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