We Miss You, Dad

These are the only digital images I have of Dad. I meant to spend some time with the scanner and the boxes of pictures I have of him—hundreds. Family shots. “Artistic” shots. But life got in the way, and this is all I have. A silly montage that Sarah put together several years ago of John, shaving off his beard in stages. And changing hats, for whatever reason. His brother—our uncle Tom—is a professional photographer, and dad loved photography. He loved to attend our sporting events and stand at the sidelines with his impressive lens hanging around his neck. Making sure he got every possible shot of Justin’s or Sarah’s soccer shot-on-goal. Or he’d be on the shores of the river or on the bridge overlooking the water and get a perfect shot of me in a boat, oar in the water.
These pictures aren’t quite right. I mean, I don’t remember him like this. He wasn’t always so serious, although he did have a very dry sense of humor. Like Steven Wright. He even came up with a Steven Wright-like joke, one night when I was home from college for the summer. There was a bar in our town called the Rusty Nail Lounge. Dad went in one night and ordered “a shot of tetanus.”
There are so many other little things that I remember about him that offer glimpses of the kind of man he was. And today I will be living through all of those memories that pop up when I’m picking up the baby, or pouring apple juice, or loading the laundry, or sitting on the sidelines of my own son’s game. He is always with me. But today—this weekend—10 years after he left us so quickly and unexpectedly, he is first on my mind. And, I suspect, helping me to be a better mom. Because those reminders, those cliches about life being short, they’re important. They’re true.