Remembering The Old Man
I Was Lucky Enough to Have a Template ...
On this day three years ago, my Dad passed away.
It was the height of the coronavirus health emergency, before vaccinations became available. He’d contracted the virus and spent his last days in a hospital bed that we could not visit in person. However, a nurse set up her iPad so we could have “conference Zoom calls” during his last days and hours.
My Dad, at this point, was also deep in the cruel throes of Alzheimer’s Disease — which, frankly, seemed to provide some level of blessed “remove” from the experience. His eyes remained closed, though there was the occasional facial expression that assured us he could hear and recognize our voices via the iPad.
I could also perceive a “relaxing” of his features when I cued up and played a song collection I’d created years earlier in Apple Music called “Dad’s Country” (which is playing in the background as I type this — Porter Wagoner’s “The Rubber Room” just popped on …)
These were songs we’d listened to incessantly via 8-Tracks on our living room cabinet stereo as I was growing up. It was soothing to “travel back in time” via Charlie Rich, Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, etc. His expression made it clear that he heard and appreciated what was coming out of the speaker.
We knew these were his last days—hours—and the nurse assured us that she would let us know when it was time to say goodbye, and close our connection before the end.
On November 29, 2020, he passed gently.
“Don’t Be Like Your Old Man!”
When I think about my Dad, I can’t help but remember a conversation we had while riding in the car doing some errands.
My Dad worked for Canteen Vending, and drove a big truck — everyone else drove vans — filled with candy, chips, coffee, and cigarettes. He went all over town keeping snack, soda, and cigarette machines full and functioning. The vending company he worked for was right down the hill from the Little League field, so my friends and I could always count on a free soda and Honey Bun after a few innings of ball.
When he’d take me on his Winter “weekend gig” filling vending machines for the skiers at Rib Mountain in Wausau, everybody knew his name. Invariably, I hear “Hiya, Del!” and my Dad would toss a Honey Bun or Hostess Fruit Pie — the high-end stuff — to folks who happened upon us as he was refilling machines.
To me, he seemed… famous. Everyone knew Del, and I was Del’s Kid ('“Hiya, Del - is that your kid?”).
One day we were out for a ride in the car. I was in eighth grade, and my struggle with Catholic School authority had led to yet another recent “parent-teacher meeting” — which were becoming more and more common. Dad, having just finished unloading another variation of the “shape up or else” speech, turned to me while at a red light and went completely off-script.
“What are you gonna do when you grow up?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate a second: “I’m gonna drive one of the big trucks. At Canteen.”
As I recall, he pulled the car over to the side of the road and jerked it into Park.
“What did you say?”
“I’m gonna drive one of the big Canteen trucks. Like you do. Not a van.” To me, it wasn’t a matter of if I’d be filling candy machines — that was a given. It was the quality of vehicle I’d use on the job that was in question and up for grabs.
“Over my dead body will you be driving a damn vending truck,” he said slowly. “Don’t be like your old man. Use your damn head.”
He put the car back in gear and we headed home without saying another word.
Be Like Your Old Man
As time passed, I grew to realize that my father had nothing against his profession. What he did not want to see was his offspring limiting their choices because they’d seen the world from a single perspective.
“Get out there and try stuff, see what you’re good at,” he’d say. “You don’t know anything yet.”
Years later, when I’d tell him that I was busy writing (writing?) a Little Golden Book about a blue hedgehog named Sonic (“And they pay you for this?”) and reintroducing the original Fully Articulated Man of Action via something called the GI Joe Masterpiece Edition (“So, the…. toy, huh?”), he’d scratch his head at first, but then smile proudly when examining the results.
I’m forever thankful to my father for reminding me that the world is full of potential — and for providing an excellent template for my own role as “Dad” that I work every day to live up to.
That’s why he’ll never truly be “gone.”
We were both lucky to have Van-driving dads who wanted more for their boys. Thanks for sharing your experience, amigo!