Dear Pops,
We joked that you would outlive us all and I guess I leaned too hard into that one, so you had to be obstinate and go the other direction. Now I think the end is here and I’m glad for you, because this has been a long, miserable road that has slowly robbed you of too much. It’s okay to go now. We’ll be fine and it’s time for you to head up to heaven and start rearranging their dishwasher.
But before you go, I want to make sure you know that I am so proud of the person you’ve been and will spend the rest of my life being grateful that you were my dad. We had our clashes, sure, and sometimes I still smirk about the absurd fights and think you were a total asshole, but you probably feel the same way about me and that’s okay. Deep down, we ended up really understanding each other and having a truly meaningful bond.
You said a few things over the years that indicate a belief you weren’t the most successful or special, but I want to make sure you know I don’t agree. My permanent impression is that you’re a smart, confident, capable, driven, extremely handy man who could build anything with his hands, play guitar like a rockstar, and carry himself with unshakeable strength in every situation. I wouldn’t change a thing about you, even if you have oddly-shaped toes and passed them down to me and your granddaughter.
I have so many wonderful memories of you. Our times at Lake Anna, fishing, sleeping in the van, and hanging out on the orange boat. You teaching me to waterski so we could surprise mom. Pork rinds and atomic fireballs – two food groups of my childhood. Your prized BMWs and the time you finally trusted me enough to drive one. Going to get allergy shots together and stopping for milkshakes and onion rings at Knossos. You teaching me how to shoot and bragging to everybody like I was Annie Oakley. Our unemployment lunch dates at all-you-can-eat sushi where they probably should have charged us extra for all the fish we ate. The mornings we’d talk on the phone during my drives to work. Our road trips to bike races and you helping me overcome my fear of a particularly technical stretch of trail. All the times you had my back, came to my aid, and helped me keep moving on the hard days. It felt like you saw me for exactly who I was and loved me just for that. How can I ever thank you enough?
Every time I ever park, I’ll think about the time you said, “I like to pull through; that way people think I backed in.” You weren’t effusive with jokes, but your dry, subtle humor has been my absolute favorite. Even after words became impossible for you to summon in the last few years, we could still scandalize listeners with our humor and share a laugh.
When I told Caroline we’re headed back to Arizona to say goodbye today, she said, “I don’t want Grandpa to die. I like playing with him.” To be honest, I wasn’t sure how she’d feel or if she’s old enough to remember how much she’s enjoyed the time she spent with you. Hearing that and knowing that you stuck around long enough to leave a lasting impression on her means everything. It means you’ll be remembered with love even long after I’m gone, and someday she’ll be able to tell your great grandkid that her Grandpa Phil was a great guy with a strong hide-and-seek game.
I’m sorry I never made it back to law school, that I took a few tries to get marriage right, that I didn’t follow your footsteps in religion, and that I haven’t been around as much as I should have in the past few years. If it helps to know, I’m doing pretty okay in my career, I try to be a good person even if God isn’t the one telling me to do it, and Josh seems like a keeper. I’ll do my best to keep making you proud in the years ahead. Law school is a lost cause.
While it might be good for a laugh, please don’t haunt me. That’ll totally weird me out. Go bowling up in heaven – a wise man once told me that’s where thousands cheer.
Love you always. It’s finally time to go into the light; I’ve got that extra sturdy Sapporo can you always admired waiting for you.
Doodles
I had the pleasure of knowing Phil at a time in his life that I think a lot of people will remember when they think of him. Pretty much retired, playing in a band, working with the masons – pretty sure it wasn’t the tiny car dudes – lighting off fireworks, working with the church, wrenching on his BMW, and grilling every day he could stand on the deck. Peak Phil, if you will.
He was a stubborn guy. It was part of his unique charisma. Once, we got in a multi-week argument over the source of an SRS dashboard light… is it in poor taste to say now that I was right? He had great taste and I loved riding in his S85 M5, as did anyone allowed the privilege. His self-caricature would be Mr. Clean ripping a giant burnout, playing Thunderstruck one-handed, blasting a Peacemaker through the sunroof in to the sky like Yosemite Sam with his granddaughter in the passenger seat grinning as big as he would be.
The thing that stuck out to me most about him was the kindness he built his character around. Sure, he was blunt and off-color and kind of intimidating, but even when he had every reason to hold a grudge, he wouldn’t. I was welcomed in to his life with a firm handshake, regardless of the circumstances, and would have received the same until the day he left us. I’ve said goodbye to friends with him, buried pets, shared dozens of meals, and celebrated lots of occasions with him. I’m sad that time is behind us now, but I’ll be proud if I can add some of his dry humor and upstanding character to my comportment.
But I think I’ll always remember his utter disdain for the way I liked my meat cooked. Anything other than rare was a sin, or may as well have been. To this day, I ask waiters to “burn it like it’s damned” to try and avoid judgey interjections.. I’m gonna keep doing it, too. But we’re gonna fire up the grill this week and do a little American dreamin’ in his honor. Crispy burgers comin’ up!
You were very special to Phil. What a wonderful tribute. It is much appreciated and brought both tears and smiles to my heart. Thank you.