Dad’s gone, but his wisdom lives on
- col-leslie-pearce-keating
- June 16, 2023
- 614
On July 11, eighteen years will have passed since my father died. Many years ago I wrote about his illness and passing. Although it’s been a long time, in many ways it feels like just yesterday that we spent that last weekend together. Mom had fallen and broken a hip only days beforehand. Dad was not doing well with COPD and emphysema. He slept more than talked that last weekend, but it was a rare time when we were alone together, just the two of us.
Over the last months of his life, Dad tried to give me advice. Perhaps he knew his time was coming. I still remember the words he shared, and some of his musings those last days and weeks come back to me when I least expect, words that shed light on my life today.
The day Dad passed away he said, “If the kids are OK, nothing else really matters.” He sounded so tired on the phone that day, and I was in the thick of Lyme disease with my fourth-grade daughter. Oftentimes, I think back to those simple words Dad uttered. After all, didn’t he and Mom lose two of their five babies in infancy? Didn’t he grow up poor in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania? Didn’t he see his parents struggling to feed nine kids on a coal miner’s salary during those Depression years? He understood better than most that our children are our gold, and that when they survive and thrive, we are rich.
I had my DNA done by Ancestry some years ago. Although Dad always claimed to be pure Irish, the results did not reflect that conclusion. There was Scottish blood and English blood, and yes, a tad of Irish blood, but a whole lot of other nationalities were evident as well.
Ancestry sent me a photo of my paternal grandparents whom I had never seen. After all, I was the fourth child of five. Dad was the ninth of 10, with his baby brother dying after him. We were de facto last-born “babies” of our families. I had never seen my grandparents’ photograph, but they looked like dear friends to me. My eyes were reflected in grandma Ruth Emma’s. Dad’s tall stance and broad shoulders were evidenced in grandpa John Miles.
I then came back to those last words of my dad’s: “If the kids are OK, nothing else matters.” The years had worn hard on those two souls who battled poverty every day of their lives. By 66, my age now, Grandma looked a good decade older, but nine of their 10 kids survived. That was all that mattered.
Another axiom my dad often uttered that last summer was “the only golden thing about the golden years is your urine because of all the blankety-blank pills you have to take.” I have laughed often about those words, for between the vitamins and pharmaceuticals I throw down my gullet, my urine is indeed golden. I find comfort in Dad’s ability to laugh at his failings, as we all should.
Just last weekend, I met with my dear friend Mary, who visited Wooster for a board meeting at The College of Wooster. Two other friends from Cleveland joined us for lunch at Basil. As we spoke, I listened for similarities. Two of the women’s husbands had passed. Two of us remarked about our 100-year-old mothers. Two of us are divorced. Several of us had battled illness with our kids. Several have children living far away. None of us have grandkids yet due to advanced college programs. We talked about our surgeries and maladies too. Three of us are retired.
The great irony is we think we are so different from other generations when we are young, but we are very much the same. And the exact words of advice my parents uttered, I have heard myself repeating to my 28- and 30-year-old adult children.
I visit Dad’s grave several times a year in Youngstown. I talk to his photograph, especially on holidays and his birthday. If we were to speak to one another, I would tell him how often I recall his wisdom, how often I wish I could see him or tell him how right he was about so many things, how I see his face and hair in my mirror and relish the fact I am his only child with his blue eyes, like grandma Ruth.
Dad and I didn’t always see life through the same lens. There were times when I’m sure he thought I was from a different planet. But we loved each other, always, and today like so many days, I am remembering my father.