Softly Falls the Light of Day

There is a song that goes to the tune of taps. I learned it as a Boy Scout and every time I sing it I hear my father's voice. It has its depths and its heights. It speaks of honor, courage, and an unbreakable moral compass. These are all things I've learned from my dad, and I miss him. This time was too short, this light fell too soon, and yet the sun rises.

When I walk outside I can see where my father died. I talk to him and tell him how much I miss him as I watch the sun rise.

My dad was born in 1944 as the younger son in a family that was poor. His father worked in an ice cream factory and became a manager. They lived in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. He watched his older brother get acclaims and scholarships, and generally my dad didn't get acknowledgement that he'd amounted to much. But he was the one who became an Eagle Scout. He played soccer in college. He enlisted in the army and served in Korea as a logistics quartermaster. He eventually became an accountant, then an analyst, and started working in computers at the very first chance he got. His mother died early of cancer while his father lived to 93. He married my mom and I was born in Europe while they were working for the UN.

I remember as a young kid, going to my father's workplace. I don't remember what the company was, just that the building was absolutely enormous. It was larger than anything I had previously imagined.

I remember him being so ridiculously strong. And I couldn't do anything to him. I couldn't even manage to tickle him. He could make me laugh so hard so easily. I would wrap my whole body around his arm and he would pick me up like it was nothing.

If he didn't know something he worked to learn it. He had so many books, our house was full of them. The basement, and everywhere in between. I found some in a kitchen cupboard, some tucked away in a filing cabinet. When he was renovating our attic he added more bookshelves inside the walls, and that was still not enough. My dad was always patient, trying to introduce me to everything he could as I wandered into the Internet. I remember him introducing me to computers back when it was 5 and a half inch floppy drives. I remember when we got AOL and a 14400 baud modem. I think he was just as hopeful as he was afraid for me what I might stumble across - he knew and understood how dangerous it could be way before anyone else. Of course I didn't care and worked around every protection he put in place, and I only later learned that he was so proud. I wish we'd understood each other more then, but we didn't.

My dad was the cook of the family. I'm still trying to remember and try all the things he tried because they were often so delicious. I remember the way he took my thumb and moved it to demonstrate what toughness meant in cooking. He got a bread machine and inspired me to make a middle age loaf. He also inspired great hits such as Very Black and Green Rice, Buttered Muffin & Sausage left out overnight in the toaster, and my personal favorite Fruit Punch Chicken.

He once told me that a programming project of mine wasn't realistic - that what I was trying to create took many people years to build, and even replicating it wasn't remotely feasible. I didn't listen and I definitely didn't complete anything meaningful for the project, and to this day I remember it as my first real world lesson about software.

At one point during high school, this man who had smoked for 30 years became my soccer coach. I think he was trying to connect with me in something I enjoyed. During practice he would have us run drills, and my favorite was when he played goalie. Not a single one of us ever scored on him. This man who had an aggravated knee from a chainsaw accident was giving his all. I was so amazed and proud.

Looking back as an adult I can see everything he tried to do for me. He really went to his absolute limits and beyond. When job opportunities called him away from home he just did it, and now as a father myself I can see how painful that must have been.

He had 2 strokes in 2008. That year profoundly changed life for all of us. He worked hard to regain speech and even to drive again. The first time he drove the car again was scary as hell for me. I was so proud and so scared. After that he would pick me up from the train station and drop me off, going on local roads. That meant a lot to both of us.

When my parents moved from New Jersey to Minnesota it really took everything for them to make the trip. He started having recurring respiratory complications. I didn't know it but he was dieing.

He got to see my daughter's first steps and hear my son's amazing laugh. I remember the last times we talked, and I was certain he would be coming home again.

I wish my last words were more comforting, and most of all that I wish I had been there when he died. Instead I got the phone call when I was 20 steps away from his room - he had already passed. He was gone. I held his hand that was for my entire life so hot and I felt the heat go out of it. Now I am here with his grandchildren who share his birthday and I just miss him so very much.

It has taken me a very long time to write this because every sentence shakes me. But I wanted to write his story because stories are how we carry our most cherished memories.

I love you Dad. Happy 80th.