It has been 27 years since we lost my Pop. He has now been gone longer than I knew him. Yet he lives on every day in the four of us. My oldest brother has his name, my sister has many of his attitudes and home repair talents, my other brother has some of his sense of humor, I just have his ghost living in my head.
Pop was the final authority whose approval meant the most to me. Everything I have ever done was to impress that man. I was his baby girl, but he always demanded my best effort in all pursuits.
The following thoughts were first written down more than ten years ago.
When I think of the hospital where my father lay beginning to die, I see brown. Hundreds of shades and varieties of brown-ness, that is what the place evokes in my memory.
My Pop, always so powerful, always a physically imposing presence, lying in Intensive Care with belching and bleeping and blinking machines around him. His merry, mischievous blue eyes hidden forever from us. (And he had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. None of us inherited them, but one of my nephews did.) He lay there so still and helpless and seemingly small, this invincible giant of my childhood, the only hero I ever had.
Pop fought in the Pacific in WWII. He was in the infantry and spent two years slogging around on tropical islands. He never talked much about what it was like, and he told me he was glad Matt was in the Air Force, so he would likely not have such a bad time if he ever had to go to war. (True. Matt was aircrew, and they are considered important assets, and therefore taken good care of.)
My heart was numb and shattered in a million pieces. In more pain than I have ever known, yet remote, unfeeling, observing from a distance.
Those first days after the accident feel like they happened to someone else. My poor Mom, with her only anchor slipping away, was still more worried about us kids. She knew how much we all loved Pop. He was president of my oldest brother's fan club, he was my sister's motivator and her mentor in home repair, he was my other brother's biggest fan, and his source of reassurance about being the father of little boys. For me, Pop was the one person in the world whose praise meant the most. He was a tough critic, a severe judge, and a willing support of my endeavors in life. He gave me my nickname, (which is what everybody calls me now), he built my playhouse, made me a special swing, taught me to drive, always worried that I got my feelings hurt too easily, and in short, he was my coach. Where Mom was my best friend, and taught me a lot of neat things, and understood the way my mind works a little better than I wanted her to, Pop was the one who got me through all the challenges I would rather have ignored. Pop was the constant source of "Oh yes you CAN, if you really WANT to!"
Pop always demanded my best effort, and then asked for more.
It hit me with such sickening force, the sight of my very vibrant, very lively Pop awash in the immobile bland brownnesss of that hospital. I wanted him to open his eyes and start complaining about the doctors and the schedules and the procedures like he would normally have done, but he lay there uncharacteristically silent, docile and unmoving. It took his strong, stubborn body a year to die, but my very much beloved Pop was already gone, and he didn't even say goodbye.
People compliment me on my baking now, and I appreciate it, but I would rather hear pop carry on about "strumbelly pie" or tell me how good the cheese crackers are in between bites.
My husband is very supportive, and he cheers me on, but Pop's approval always meant the most to me.
Pop worked hard at everything he ever did, and expected me to, also. Whenever something came too easily to me, he wanted me to go back and work even harder, "so it will really be yours" he'd say.
He was so proud of all of us kids. He never told us so. He told the others. He'd tell my brothers and sister what he thought about things I had done, not me. He'd tell me about them. Nothing about life with Pop was ever grey or drab brown. It was always colorful, loud and lively.
Mom has a quietness and more peaceful way about her, but Pop was always bold and bright.
He was always physically strong, though he wasn't very big, really. (Only about 5'9, but he was muscular.) His tough stubborn attitude went out ahead of him and moved people out of his path as if by magic. He always seemed so powerful to me. Seeing him in that plaqce that makes us all powerless was horrible.
When his body finally realized that he was gone, we were able at last to lay him to rest. What a lovely day it was- clear and bright, and he would have loved the view of downtown Los Angeles from his plot at Rose Hills. We all cried, but whether it was sorrow or just relief that he was finally free of his pain, I do not know.
I think about him often - it seems sometimes he tells me to do things - like make strawberry pie for Easter and give one to Susan and Bud. I think sometimes he is with us on Sunday mornings to hear our singing. I know I sensed him near on Christmas Eve - that first one back in the Cathedral, and how he must have enjoyed the music.
The hardest thing about not having him around anymore is not having him there to show our "neat things" and accomplishments to. (I wonder what he would make of this computer on my desk, or the cell phone that is really a little computer to go?) I would LOVE to sing for him now! My voice now is so much more than it was when he died. (And he did like my singing even then.)
It is true that we still have Mom, but she is so supportive she always likes what we do. Pop was a picky audience, and he'd be honest if he really didn't like something.
Every year when I decorate the Christmas tree, I know Pop is near. That was our thing that we did together every year when I was growing up, right up until the year I got married. I will usually have at least one ornament that moves as though it were tugged on, when nobody or nothing could have moved it, to show me that Pop thinks it ought to be moved. And usually, I do move it to a better part of the tree.
I think Pop was amazed that I willingly stayed alone in that house in a not so good neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt had to go TDY. I think he would have been further amazed that I willingly went to live in a foreign country, off-base, in the midst of people whose language I set out to quickly learn before we moved there. He would have been proud of me, staying alone in that apartment while Matt went off to Desert Shield/Storm. He would have liked the fact that I sent care packages not just for Matt, but for all the guys in his crew, and for the guys doing charge of quarters at Rhein-Main, AND for the Mobile Aerial Port Squadron that he was really part of. (He was deployed with the flying squadron instead so they'd have enough full flight crews to handle their proposed mission load.) He'd be proud of me now, working in the library and helping my community.
I wish he had lived long enough to see how I handled those things.
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