by T.C Leonard

Created on: July 06, 2008

To me, my father was a great man, and I've yet to meet anybody who would disagree with that. This would be the perfect forum to sing his praises, but, quite honestly, if he's tuned in to this essay that would embarrass him. I'll try to keep this as simple as possible; he would have liked it that way. One odd memory keeps popping into my head, so I guess I'll start with that. It happened about a year ago...

I live about three hours from my parents' home, and on the way over I drove through a paint spill and white paint splattered all over my expensive gray sports car-the same car he laughed about when I bought it during my mid-life crisis. When I got to their place, I saw the damage and was furious. I stomped into the house cursing like a banshee and then walked into the kitchen and made a sanwich. As I sat there eating I cooled off about half a degree, and when I walked back outside-still furious-I witnessed a sight that will always stay with me: an eighty-seven year old man sitting on a stool sponging hot water on my car and peeling off the white paint spatter. I'm a middle-aged man who is a bit rough around the edges, but since my father's death, I can hardly think about that moment without a tear coming to my eye.

He died a little less than a month ago, and I have thought about putting a dedication to him on this website ever since. It has taken a while to get things straight. Honestly, there are a few things with which I haven't found peace. First and foremost, I never got the chance to say goodbye. I knew things weren't going well, so I took some days off from work and arrived late on the evening of June 17th. I was greeted at the door by my mother, and I slept in my old childhood bedroom. At 5:30 the next morning the phone rang and my mom answered. I met her in the hallway, but she didn't have to say a thing. That was it. It was all wrong.

I guess there are a few things I should say about my father's life. He was a World War II vet, and those four years weren't a whole lot better than living through The Great Depression. After the war, he had to leave West Virginia and go to Cleveland to find work. After five years of working in a steel mill, he came back home and spent forty or more years in the coal mines and retired at 74. He had a good life and a long one, but there were many tough times along the way. He was a good, kind man who rarely had a harsh word for anybody, but he was far from touchy-feely. The end result is that neither of us said, "I love you" very often. I knew and I know he did too, but to have said it one last time-that night-would have meant the world to me and, more importantly, him.

When the mourning is over, we need to concentrate on those who are still living, and I hope I do a better job of letting my mother know a whole lot of things. She deserves that. That's probably the best way to pay hommage to a man who never let either of us down. I had a great childhood in a calm, decent environment, and my mother should grow old with the same dignity. I lost a fine example of what a real man should be, but with a little luck and many good memories to guide me, maybe-just maybe-I can live up to some of it.

Dad, I never got to say it that night, but I love you very much and always will.

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