I Remember A Raindrop

The window pane becomes a frame of darkness, silhouetted by the night sky enveloping the horizon. Rain gently beats down on the glass, mimicking the rhythmic sensation of my own pulse. The water trickles downward, carving its own destination, not predetermined but nonetheless gliding gently downward in silence. The rhythm of the falling rain is mesmerizing, almost hypnotizing as I sit and ponder about the upcoming Fathers Day weekend.

On June 30, 2008, my father passed away, and every year since, Fathers Day has not quite been the same. Since his passing, I've reflected and written about how desperate I feel without him. I've expressed pain, suffering, misery and despair in losing not only a father, but an individual who has sculpted me, right, wrong or indifferent, into the person I am today. Although the pain of losing someone so dear and close to you never subsides, it simply becomes a pain you learn to carry around with you over time. For this Fathers Day, I choose to not mourn MY loss, but instead, remember the bright spots, the positives and more importantly, celebrate the man I am proud to call "Dad".

I remember fishing days. Early morning ventures into the predawn hours of the South Carolina back roads. Setting up fishing poles, untangling lines and endless casts into a murky deep that became unpredictable as to what we would catch next. Alligators would confuse our bobbers for marshmallows, and the ensuing profanity laced rants from him as he would have to reset yet another pole, suddenly became comical of nature. The first time he taught me how to hook a worm, not wrapping it too tight, and leave just enough dangling to entice the fish! The mornings never seemed to end as we would wrap up the day retreating home with just as empty a net as we first started out with.

I remember fertilizer. Although the story remains fuzzy, as a child, I ate grass fertilizer directly out of the bag. Different versions are abound as to exactly how and why it happened. I do remember my dad tossing me like a rag doll into the back of our wood-paneled station wagon, and in a panic, rushing to the nearest hospital. Cars back then didn't quite go as fast as they do now, however, he managed to get us there in record time. I recall the Dr., with my dads panicked look on his face, asking and pleading for me to tell them exactly how much I ate! The next (and most lasting memory) results in my father standing over me, while I lie in a mist tent...water dripping next to my head from the collected condensation above. The day I went home from the hospital, he brought me a Matchbox car and a few comic books.

I remember garages. He always had a project going on, whether it was working on the car, woodworking, or building model airplanes. The problem became, he was incapable of finishing one project, before starting another. We built, by hand, a cradle and rocking horse for my younger brother, before he was born. I've spent countless hours, at his direction, sitting in the middle of the garage, sanding away on an endless supply of wood. From coarse to fine, he would inspect each one as I finished, performing as a master woodworker to ensure accuracy and smoothness. He would have to remind me many times, "WITH the grain, John...not against it!".

I remember stitches. As a teenager, I was messing around with a pocketknife. Opening it wasn't a problem, and a sense of masculinity arose over flashing it around in my bedroom like a ninja. While attempting to close it, and put it away before I got caught, I wasn't aware of the locking mechanism installed to prevent it from prematurely closing. Somehow, in my final attempt to close it, my finger got in the way, and the blade, while closing, sliced through. My dad had actually just left to run up to 7-Eleven, and wouldn't be back for a few. True to form, my mother took the reigns, holding my hand under cold, running water to wash away the blood, then apply pressure until my father returned. Once back, another trip in the station wagon ensued. This time, we went to the ship he was stationed on. Laying on the sick bay table, I was able to witness first-hand my father doing what he did best....work. Mom held one hand and said "Squeeze when it hurts!" as he inserted the needle into my finger to numb it, prepping for stitches. "If you're good, I'll buy you a slurpee on the way home." I couldn't believe it...here I was, a 14 year old's version of bleeding to death, and he's already thinking about 7-Eleven again! Are you kidding me?!?!?!

I remember strength! He was the epitome of courage, strength and conviction. Although he had faults, as we all do, he overcame them and instilled that same strength in me. Although misunderstood by many, and labeled as my "military upbringing" as a curse of some sort, I cherish and relish the morals, values and ethics he dispersed amongst us. His rules, standards and expectations molded the ideologies and principles that today, I hold true and if for nothing or nobody else, I wish to instill in my own son.

I remember pride and recognition. My entire childhood was spent trying to win his approval, to no avail. It wasn't until later in our adult relationship that he was able to express it, much less show it. Although his absence over the past few years have missed quite a lot, I know, in my heart, that he is proud of not only who I've become,  but of what I've learned and dealt with since he's been gone. However, more importantly, the pride and recognition should go full circle. I no longer WANT him to be proud of me, my accomplishments or achievements. I long for HIM to be proud of himself; proud in the sense that I am a product of his influence, mentoring and guidance. All these years I was looking for his approval, when in reality, I should have been looking to ensure that my actions, my results and outcomes impacted his ability to be proud of himself.

There still remains another week before Fathers Day, and I suspect my own son and I will spend some quality time together. Although he's only ten, he remains too young yet to fully understand my messages, rules, expectations and guidance. I will spend the day with him, reflecting about "Grampy" while hitting golf balls at the local driving range. As he gets older, as do I, our time becomes a bit more precious together. Circumstances in the future will alter our time together, and it pains me to know that over the course of his life, I may not give him the "remembers" that he can some day write about.

Still looking through the window pane, the darkness remains. I glance up towards to the sky where the stars are glistening in random order like a string of Christmas lights draped on a tree. I see that same trickle of water, drifting down the glass, only to realize it's not a rain drop finding its way...merely a reflection of a tear rolling down my face, carving its own destination, not predetermined but nonetheless gliding gently downward in silence.

Happy Fathers Day, Dad!