Pop

Today is the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. He had a good, though challenging, life and made it to a decent age (85). He, like all of us, had his flaws but, for me, he was a fabola father. He got me. He encouraged me to be true to myself. He was open, accepting, and as supportive as possible given the wild craziness of life. 

I think of him, even if just for brief moments, daily. It’s been a long time since we could engage in our long, free range convos that ran the gamut from wacky general riffs to serious life commentaries, familial crapoli, books, concerts, best music EVAH, art, language, friends, and on and on. Why such a long time since we had those great convos? Mostly because I lost all my hearing almost 20 years ago – we couldn’t chat on the phone anymore. Also, as he got older and mother’s health steadily declined, Daddy became less vibrant, less present.

I wasn’t able to go visit him during his last months, weeks, and days. Why not? He lived 540 miles away, in a small, hard-to-get-to town in Western Pennsylvania. To get there from Valhalla would take either a flight from Boston to Pittsburgh (getting to and from the airports + security check-ins and waits + flight time = 6.5 hours minimum travel time each way) or a 10 hour drive (each way). The length and hassle of the trips wouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact that his final health downturn happened during my two year surgery-a-thon. You remember, ’20 and ’21 when I had brain surgery followed by spine surgery followed by more bean cutting (which took out my brain’s ability to talk to my left leg, which meant I had to retrain my head to communicate with my leg) which was followed by yet another spine op. Yeah, those were some serious big fun times.

Even after I was able to get around with a brace and walker, I was in a shit-ton of pain. Car rides? Yeah, NOT a happening thing. Even a 15 minute jaunt to my physical therapy appointments were killer. They made time spent on a rack or in an iron maiden look like cushy spa adventures. Let’s say I took a metric fuck-ton of painkillers and powered my way down to see him. What then? It was high COVID times.  I may, but more likely, may NOT have been allowed in to see him in his nursing home.

So, the old man clocked out on Juneteenth in 2021. Mia famiglia likes to exit on holidays. Why? Decorations are already up, big meal’s already planned, guests are already invited – just tryin’ to make life easier for the party planners, ya know? My mother left on Halloween. Daddy on Juneteenth. The Amazing Bob on July 4th and my Aunt Mary Ann on July 5th (close enough). Cousin Gary took the last train for the coast two days after New Year’s Day.

Me? I want my own damn day when I go. 

How am I going to remember and honor my father today? By being true to myself – not putting up with shit, reading whatever the fuck I want to read, maybe watching Sigourney Weaver kick some ass, eating sushi, having my half thimble serving of Jamo, and doing some goddamn physical therapy exercising (god, I hate that shit!).

How will you spend this beautiful Juneteenth?