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“Oh Daddy, when will it stop
hurting?”
It wasn’t so much a question as
a plea. My daughter will reach her teens soon and lets it show occasionally,
but she’s child enough to believe that Dad can make it all better if only he
will, to not fully grasp that some things are not in my command. The sting of
inadequacy at that moment was less than my grief, though only by degrees.
The loss of loved ones is no
easier on large families than small, but we of smaller clans are less practiced
at it. For us it has been a dear uncle two years past, a cousin shortly before,
a beloved brother-in-law gone eight years. A tough year for some families;
nearly a decade for us.
We all die and we all know it.
While not the most original or profound thought you will hear today, it simply
isn’t a topic on which most of us dwell. So though we know it’s inescapable,
life’s end has a way of catching us unprepared. This may or may not explain Ben
Franklin’s famous pairing of death with taxes, but the words nonetheless ring
true after more than two centuries.
I have written of my
father-in-law before, most recently in October. I sometimes wince when dragging
family into this odd little hobby of mine, knowing as I do their capacity for
payback. Still, not being clever enough for fiction, I can only write of what I
think and what I know. It’s part of the burden of having me in the family these
days, one he bore with typical good humor.
Calvin Junior
Weems (there was no Calvin Senior; “Junior” was just his middle name) has been
part of my life since I had the good fortune to befriend his son while a
sophomore in high school. My own father died when I was 8, and at an age at
which many of my friends were distancing themselves from their parents I was
still seeking to plug the void left by the loss. Cal filled the bill neatly.
What drew me was
that in the sea of generational angst that was the late 60s and early 70s his
kids never pulled away from him, or their mother. We’re not talking “Ozzie &
Harriet” here; I can’t imagine him with a cardigan and pipe. And it is true
that some of my wife’s fondest memories are of their early morning jousts over
matters on which they actually agreed. But he was a kind and gentle man who
could no more begrudge family than he could hide the soft tones of Oklahoma in
his voice.
Born in what we
would today call poverty, his generosity is family legend. The same is true of
his dogged determination to work in even the toughest times, often for barter.
My wife remembers him bringing home everything from broccoli and almonds to
pigs, chickens, and a monkey – whose escape made the evening news for a few
days. Still, he never shirked a day’s work and helped raise two kids who became
the first in their family to earn college degrees. My mother-in-law went on to
do the same, to his deep pride.
It has been said
that we should live every day as if it were our last, a notion I don’t buy for
the simple reason that it is wrong most of the time. There are bills to pay,
children to raise, relationships to grow and cherish. Mundane or sublime, many
things worth doing take time and commitment beyond simple hunger for the
moment. Cal might not have said it that way, but it showed in how he lived.
He passed away
hours before Christmas of an illness diagnosed just after Thanksgiving. A blink
of an eye really, all the more for one who seemed so indestructible. The impact
he made on me and others around him will prove more durable.
And that’s why I
had to answer my daughter “Never.” But with time, the pain will pale to the
fullness of what the man was and what he left.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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