One year later

March 3, 2009 – Happy 83rd Birthday, Dad

I am a writer. I can trace my abilities as a writer to my father (who, due to overactive tear-ducts, could not always express his feelings in person but was articulate on the page) and paternal grandfather (a poet). His father (my great-grandfather) was a Member of Canadian Parliament in the mid-1800s and a great orator. While a full-year has elapsed since I saw my dad for the last time, the need to remember, the need to record, and the need to write has not diminished.

In May, I was at a place in my grief where I attempted to categorize events as B.C. (Before Cari), A.D. (After Dad), or something in-between. For the events that occurred B.C., I am entirely dependent on the memory of others; for the nearly thirty-three years since my birth, I am mostly responsible. I am beginning to feel anxious that both my busy schedule and my imperfect memory are working against me and my attempts to remember all the lasts: the last time Dad said, “I’m sorry you have to go” (or was it “I’m sorry you have to leave?”) as I left for work. When did we do our last puzzle together? What day did we have that conversation about heaven? When did we pepper dad with questions about his past only to have him say, “I can’t remember?” And then there are the A.D. types of questions: Was Dad still alive when we watched “Dan in Real Life”? Wasn’t dad there when we had that St. Patrick’s get-together? Oh, that’s right, he was gone by then.

A few weeks before my father’s death, when he was recovering from the flu, I had pulled out a manila folder full of talks he had given at several Catholic retreats back in the 60s and 70s. Although my father was a man of faith, he never really talked about what he believed. Since he was often more eloquent as a writer, I wanted to read them with him; but the day wore on and the folder returned to the bottom drawer in the yellow hutch.

My father died on March 2, the day before his 82nd birthday. Two days later, my brother and I sat on the couch in the dim light of the living room to write his eulogy. We sought to outline his best qualities: generosity, humor, and faith. The first two were easy enough to demonstrate through examples, but describing dad’s faith was more elusive. It seemed best to refer to his words when fleshing out the latter, so the folder came back out of the hutch.

Reading my father’s manuscripts, and seeing the things he crossed out or changed, was like looking over his shoulder during the writing process. He jotted the names of jokes in the margins, jokes that he would tell to loosen up the crowd, jokes that are now infamous among his family and friends: Lousy Lover; Mother-In-Law; Fat-Ass.

While Michael typed away, I interrupted his brain-storm with, “Listen to this: ‘I have learned that people will be more impressed by what we are [and] by the way we live and act; the joy inside has a way of showing itself.’ ”

“That’s it,” he said.

My father was gone, and I was still getting to know him.

Since then, mother has explained that when she and dad were asked to speak at a retreat, they were often given an outline that included a topic (ie: What is Piety?), main points, and Scripture references; many of the words they spoke were not their own. She is also quick to point out that the most powerful and memorable things were the personal stories and examples they shared. This was where they shared their experiences of God’s love and faithfulness; His provision during difficult times; His grace in the midst of sorrow.

Yesterday, I spent the anniversary of my father’s death looking through that same manila folder and found that I am guilty of the same failings that my Dad admitted to in his talks: of being over-zealous, judgemental, unforgiving; I am also offered the same forbearance, grace, and forgiveness. I am my father’s daughter, and I’ve never been prouder to admit it.