When I was young, like most young men my father was my hero. He worked hard, kept an even temper and a civil tongue and he expected everyone around him to do the same. He was larger than life, this man. When I say that he was larger than life I mean he was larger than life itself. He was a powerful yet gentle man. He was quick to offer words of encouragement or a hand on your shoulder when things seemed tough and I never heard him swear, not once that I can recall. I can count on one hand the number of times I heard him raise his voice but, then, I am the last of eight children. My brothers and sisters insist that I was actually an only child. All that said, my favorite brother, Mark, is a giant, barrel shaped man and he once confided in me that they were all terrified of him. This might be the reason that we are all so well adjusted, to tell the truth.

My father was my go-to guy when it came to problems around the house or with the car. If I couldn’t figure something out, I called dad. If I had questions about my future and where I should put my money or if some work relationship vexed me I would call dad. When I called, he would answer and the first thing out of his mouth would be “how is the car running?” I am not sure if we ever got around to the problem at hand but I think that the sound of his voice was enough to calm me down and after a few minutes of idle chitchat I would realize that I knew the right thing to do. Like a great coach, he would listen, talk about the weather and, with his great, deep basso profundo voice would calm me down and remind me that he had given me all the right tools to cope with the world and that everything would be okay. I called him just to feel better, to commiserate… and it worked. He was a giant bear of a man but not a hard bone in his body.

My father fought in World War II. Funny how we capitalize and venerate such a horrible thing but fought he did for many months on end. He was flushed out of Officer’s Candidate School in Lackland, Texas and turned into a private and handed a rifle which I knew he could handle just fine. He was sent to Europe and marched up through France and Germany to bring the great war to it’s inevitable close. For whatever reason, he came back, married mom, and raised eight wonderful, intelligent, whacky children. My parents didn’t drink. I don’t think I ever heard either of them swear, and, if you have raised a child or two imagine eight without a “What the f#$k” moment or at least a “Damnit, son!” but I never heard anything like that.

I used to call my father often. In the last few years of his life I could hear him getting older so I spent all of my free time in Ohio just waking up and having breakfast, fixing things around the house, having coffee until 10:00 and wondering where to go for lunch. This was time well spent. It was nice to just relax, tell some jokes, some stories. We were buddies, Dad and Me.

I was sitting tonight, alone, not a care in the world. It’s a beautiful March evening in Florida which means it is time to open the windows and let the breeze come through the house and laze on the couch to the sound of the wind chimes. I was sitting here with a drink in my hand and listening to jazz on the radio. The theme to Chinatown was playing and I had to sit back on the couch with my eyes closed and just revel. I sat just letting myself be content when I opened my eyes and there on the muted television screen was Johnny Carson sitting at his desk. With jazz in my ears and Johnny on the TV I was suddenly transported to somewhere in far away Ohio on a sofa in a modest ranch house with Dad in the recliner and the breeze through the windows and I just cried. My father died in 2006 and, while I think of him from time to time I don’t think I ever really missed him. He prepared me too well for the world. Didn’t need him anymore, but tonight I was reminded that I want him in the recliner…next to me. I thought of my father and, without hesitation, I placed my hands on my face and I wept uncontrollably and I was happy to do it. I always felt that there was so much more unsaid than said between me and my father that mattered but now, as a 51 year-old man I want to say them. I want to sit on the sofa with the breeze winding it’s way through my living room with Miles Davis on the stereo and a drink in my hand and I just want to sit and listen…to Miles, Charlie Parker, Bill Evans and just let the conversation flow. Two content, well appointed men in their second half just enjoying what we are supposed to enjoy…a life well lived. I don’t have any great questions to ask him anymore, I have become an elder…but I would give all the teeth in my head to let him just talk. I can almost see him, laid back on the sofa and listening to some amazing piece of jazz standard and just being. I missed out on just being with Dad.

I know that he had a lot to say, but I think that he said it…all of it…with the gentle hand on the back of my shoulder; with his sotto voice and the reassurance that “It can’t be that bad”. What a memory. What an amazing preparation to be a man in the world. I can’t thank him now because he is gone. I imagine that I did so while he was still alive but I can’t be sure. One thing I do know for sure is that he understands. I can see the look on his face as he nods slowly as if to say “Brother, you don’t even know” but happy to be there in the moment with you as he had been with my mother and so many young men overseas. He would push you a little and make you understand that you could push the world…if you wanted.

I miss you, Dad. I truly miss you. I am just beginning to understand this great mystery and I wish you were here so we could share…or just stare…out the window at the birds. Listen to Basie, Miles, Evans…whatever. Just be here. I can only hope to do the same for my family. Wherever you are, Pops, just relax. When I get there we can compare answers…or, better yet, just listen to something worth listening to and feel the breeze as it winds it’s way through the room.