When He Died, in 2001
By Mary O'R
When he died, in 2001, my father was 94. I was 61. I still called him Daddy. He was tall and strong and handsome - to the end. He was a gentle soul who could be forceful when the occasion required. He had led a rich, full life and was blessed with total recall - for every person met, every moment spent and every mile traveled - and there were a LOT of miles traveled! He instilled in his children a love of travel and a curiosity about the world and its people. He could fix anything. He made wonderful things in his basement workshop, before and after retiring from his executive job. Right up to the end, he remained INTERESTED! In his family, in the people he met, in the things that he saw, in what was going on around him and in the world. Which means that he had legions of friends and admirers - most of whose birthdays he never forgot. He was an honorable man: tragically, a rare and vanishing breed.
He gave me the best present I ever received: a second-hand bicycle lovingly refreshed, by him, for my tenth birthday. Thank Heaven I had the chance to tell him before he died how much that still meant to me. He was a bit surprised. But it's true - in a rich, full life of my own, that remains the best present I ever received. But the most important gift he gave me, even when I stumbled and disappointed him, was the fact that I never, ever doubted that he not only loved me, he approved of me. I miss my Daddy. I always will. But his memory gives me comfort and strength and makes my heart smile.
