Father's Day Funny!

I thought long and hard about posting this one... first of all, because as a born-again Christian, it is not my intent to glorify drinking.  I hope that's not the message that comes across here, because while I don't have a problem with social drinking, I believe that overindulgence takes away from the fullness of life that Jesus wants us to experience.  And obviously, many people who drink end up battling addictions and losing control of their lives in what started as a seemingly harmless recreational activity.  Secondly, I didn't want to negatively paint a picture of my late father, because in this story, he comes off as a bit silly.

But here's the truth.  My dad was a drinker.  It was a part of who he was.  To me, it never defined him.  He was so much more than that, and I can honestly say that I hope he's able to enjoy a round or two in heaven, because he took great pleasure in doing so here on earth, and from my point of view, he wasn't less of a father or man for doing so.  Furthermore, in an attempt to create humor, it may seem that I'm exaggerating in this story... but I'm not.  I don't mean to write AT my father's expense.  It is actually these colorful memories that have stayed with me that, having lost him, help me to cherish his memory and love him even better.  So I intend no disrespect with this story, it's actually quite the opposite.

This story, though never before shared online, was actually the foundation for my latest book in progress, This is Going to Sound Like Fiction.  I wrote it during a winter writing retreat, and literally, before tentatively sharing at our open mic, I explained, "This is going to sound like fiction... but it's not."  The response I received that night was so encouraging and warm, I actually began weaving together a collection of similar stories that explore the everyday craziness of life.

So yes, this story is a little crazy.  No, we don't all come off as perfect in the version I'm about to tell.  But Dad, if you know my heart, you know I share this in love, to bring a smile to someone else's face.  You were much more than just a partier--you were a great father, a hard worker, and a fantastic friend.  But your colorful antics were always a reason for me to smile... so I hope you don't mind that I share this with the world.  I love you and miss you.  Happy Father's Day.

The Lebaron Meets A Sad End

            “So we’re sitting on the porch, chillin, hanging out, and all of a sudden Dad comes bursting in.  He coulda been drunk, or maybe not, with Dad, it was hard to tell, so who knew?”

            I laugh, pausing my brother in the middle of his story, as he stops to grin and nod.  We’re standing in my kitchen, Dad’s kitchen, except I’ve got new hardwood floors and shiny stainless steel appliances, and the walls are a soft yellow now.  I’ve heard this story before, and I love it.  I listen to Johnny tell it again.

            “So anyway, Dad comes busting in all upset.  ‘Johnny, Johnny, we gotta go now!  We gotta get my car out of the ditch down the road!'” 

            I can picture it—a younger version of my brother with his brown curls cut short, sitting around with his twenty-somethings friends, maybe drinking, maybe smoking, all wasting time in the leisurely way of the young before careers, marriages, and social obligations.  My father—six foot two, Albert Einstein hair, wrinkled and reddened but kind face—yanking open the creaking sliding glass door, stumbling onto the porch, squinting and glaring at the group of boys lounged about in mismatching outdoor dining chairs.  His naturally booming voice louder than usual from that extra round at Smitty’s and the commotion he’s just been through. 

            I smile at Johnny.  “How’d he get home?” I ask, forgetting this part of the story.

            Johnny grins.  He looks a lot like my father.  He, too, has been drinking.  His brown eyes are glassy, his pale complexion pinkened.  “He got a ride from one of your high school friends!  Remember?”

            I literally laugh out loud as I rack my mind trying to recall which of my former cheer squad teammates experienced what had to have been the very memorable event of picking up my sixty-six-year-old hyperactive father, rescuing him from a two-mile walk down a tree choked one lane road, black as coal during the night.  I bet that was a long five minutes in that girl’s life.  God bless her.

            We can’t remember which of my friends it was, and Johnny moves on with the story.  “Now mind you, this was Dad’s convertible, the Lebaron, but to Dad, this is the car to end all cars.  This is the f-in (my brother does not say f-in, but I can’t quite bring myself to say what he actually said) Mercedes Benz of cars in Dad’s eyes!”

            I remember this car, though I do not recall ever riding in it.  A boxy, early nineties red soft-top convertible, my Dad’s pride and joy.  Dad wasn’t a car guy, but I think he saw this car as a chick magnet of sorts.  I wonder if he thought of himself as Fonzie or James Dean as he cruised Rt. 54 to Smitty’s, trying on different pick-up lines with the fifty-plus crowd of white-haired women.

            On this particular evening, Dad had wrecked the car in a curve that was so steep it was practically a right angle.  A common mistake.  Tourists and teenagers who took the turn with too much speed were forever being fished out of that ditch.  I’d landed in it once myself when my best friend went flying around it on a rainy morning a few months after getting her driver’s license.

            After what I imagine to be much yelling and excitement, Dad convinced Johnny and a friend to drive him back to where a buddy was towing my Dad’s precious LeBaron out of the ditch, so Johnny could drive it home.  But when they got there, the cops had beat him to the scene.

            “Who’s car is this?” Johnny sneered, an unkind impersonation of the policeman who had arrived on the scene.  Cops, in general, hated my brother, with his punk t-shirts and baggy jeans and multiple earrings.  “So I said, ‘It’s my father’s sir.’  ‘This isn’t your car?’” He demanded, changing his voice into the high pitched snarl he was using for the police man.  “ ‘No sir,’” (a humble voice) “ ‘it’s my father’s.’ ‘Where’s your father?  How’d this car get in this ditch?  He drunk?  You drunk?’  ‘No, sir.  We’ve not been drinking.  My dad just took the turn too fast and ended up in the ditch is all, I think.  I wasn’t with him.’  ‘Where’s your father now?’  ‘He’s in my car, sir.  Shaken up from the accident.  He’s elderly and frail,’” which was the most ridiculous lie yet to have come out of my brother’s mouth, for, though he had silver hair and a lined face, my father moved with the energy of a high school quarterback and was built like an ox.  Frail was a perfect antonym.

            The cop wasn’t buying it.  Eventually the friend Dad called to tow him showed up, confirmed that the ditched LeBaron was indeed John Meister’s (the elder, not the younger’s), and I’m sure, fed up with the entire situation, the police officer finally just called it a day and ordered the car impounded.  Amazingly, no one got arrested.

            But the story got even better.  Adamant that his chick magnet be returned to him immediately, Dad insisted that Johnny get up at the crack ass of dawn (well, maybe seven o’clock, but to my partying twenty-one-year-old brother, that was essentially the same thing) in order to chauffer him to the impound lot so that his LeBaron could be rescued. 

            “Dad paid $250 to get that car out that day,” Johnny continued, an incredulous smile brimming beneath his words, “And that very same night…” he was shaking his head.

            I was laughing so hard tears were stinging the corners of my eyes.  After all his valiant efforts to save the LeBaron from first the ditch, and then the certain doom of impoundment, his insistence that this be resolved absolutely immediately….

            That very same night he got this aging convertible home safe and sound, parked lovingly in the driveway—

            “BAM!” Johnny managed through choking laughter.  “Smashed by a tree!”

            Our house, you see, sits in the middle of an acre of woods, mostly giant, stretching pines, hundreds of feet tall.  The evening that they had driven the Lebaron home, a thunderstorm had rolled in, causing branches to fall and trees to sway.  As had periodically happened when we grew up, sometimes the whipping winds would even cause and older tree to crack and fall.  On this particular occasion, one such tree had fallen on the LeBaron the same night it had been returned to my father.  So a mere hours after it had been secured and returned to him, mother nature and/ or fate thwarted my father once again, smashing his beloved car into smithereens with an unassuming pine tree.

            Maybe some things just aren’t meant to be.  Or maybe my father was a magnet for irony.  All I know is that despite his most diligent attempts, the LeBaron met a sad, sad end.

            Still, it makes for a great story.

 

 

 

New, Raw and Uncut: A True Tale of Everyday Crazy

This is going to sound like fiction...

Warning:  This story contains an image of my father in a pink bath towel.  Don't worry, it is rated PG-13.  No full nudity occurs.

Rule Number One:  Don’t Wake Mom

(Unless the House is on Fire)

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the time I nearly burned down the house.  I was ten years old.  The incident involved a cinnamon flavored pop-tart, an aging toaster, and my sleep-deprived mother. 

            Mom had trained us never to wake her.  She worked the night shift at a nursing home, see, and came home around seven in the morning.  Rule number one growing up in our house was always Don’t Wake Mom.  Not only did she stumble home red-eyed and exhausted from an evening of taking care of the elderly, but on the rare occasions I found need to wake her, it was a terrifying experience.  She would always stare vacantly at us for a moment or two before something in her eyes would change and she would gasp, grab a hold of our arms, or sometimes even give a little shriek.  Not how you want to start your mama’s day, trust me.

            So as I stared at the thick cloud of black smoke puffing up from the malfunctioning toaster, I actually froze, considering:  Do I wake mom up for this?

            I’m sure that with the entire home in jeopardy, some of you are wondering why I would have even paused.  All I can say in my defense is that I was pretty sure she might kill me.  After all, I had actually set the house on fire.  All I had wanted was a cinnamon pop tart, and I’d realized something was wrong when the minute and a half needed to toast the thing had passed, with no springing sound of the pop tart ejecting.  Clearly, the toaster was eating my pop tart for me.  Was this worth waking mom for?  Yes.  Was I going to get out of this without getting in trouble?  Hard to say.

            I tiptoed to her bedroom, wanting to break the news to her as gently as possible.  I lightly pushed on the bedroom door, taking a deep breath.

            “Mom,” I called in a hushed whisper.  “Mom…”

            Nothing.  I hesitated.  “Mom,” I managed in a slightly louder voice.  “Mom… the toaster is smoking a little bit,” I was downplaying the amount of smoke, hoping that by giving her a less dramatic version of what was happening, I might lessen my punishment.

            Mom stirred under her covers but didn’t open her eyes or respond.  I frowned, hovering in the doorway.  This was not good.

            Quickly, I ran lightly down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the kitchen.  My mouth dropped as I took in the scene in front of me.  The heavy black smoke poured upwards, the pop tart a smoldering black mass of goo bubbling over the toaster.  Orange flames shot up and licked the bottom of our cabinets.

            I raced back down the hallway, flying into Mom’s bedroom and grabbing her by the shoulder.

            “Mom,” I began urgently, “Mom… the toaster’s smoking a lot!”

            She mumbled something unintelligible, attempting to roll back over.

            “Mom!”  I screamed, panic taking over.  “Mom, the toaster is on FIRE!”

            At this, with one fluid motion, she shot out of bed, threw back the covers and went sprinting down the hallway.  As I followed behind, I heard, “OH MY GOD!”

            She raced back by me as I cowered in the living room, entranced by the toaster fire blazing away in the next room. 

            What happened after that has been burned into my memory, a hilarious image that will stay with me all of my life:

            “JOHN!” I heard my mother’s panicked squawk, followed by a muffled, urgent conversation hidden from my ears as it was covered by the bathroom door banging open and the hissing sound of my father’s interrupted shower.

            The next thing I knew, my father came exploding down the hallway, a tiny pink bath towel wrapped around his waist, barely (but thankfully, completely) covering everything one hoped would be covered.  Legs pumping like an NFL player’s, he rounded the corner, skidded across the kitchen to the toaster, and as I watched fascinated, he grasped the toaster and its cord out of the wall with one hand, hurling it into the sink and jerking on the faucet to extinguish the flames, all the while using his other hand to continue to keep his towel wrapped around his waist.

            And just that quick, it was over.

            I learned a lot that day (besides the obvious—that you always wake up an adult if the house is on fire).  I learned that I could depend on my family.  I learned that honesty is always the best policy, that I could tell my mother anything.  She was angry and amused that I was afraid to wake her, given the situation.  She also decided that other than a mild chastising, no other punishment was in order, considering the trauma I had just experienced in nearly burning down the house.  But what I realized from that day forth is that no matter what, my mother would be there for me.

            And thankfully, in every other subsequent mess I ever got myself into, the solution never again included my nearly naked father in a pink bath towel.

I am From...

A good one for #ThrowbackThursday...

My "I Am From" Poem.

Composed on my last birthday.

Originally shared as a note on Facebook, 8/30/13.


Inspired by readings from Ms. Kim Patrick's Young Writers' Open Mic, and dedicated to all the people who have made me into who I am...

I am from golden days spent wiggling toes in sun baked sand, and the taste of salt that lingers after reluctantly saying farewell to the sparkling waves, dragging boogie boards and plastic buckets the half mile trek away from the beckoning Atlantic.
I am from Daddy's big laugh as he thrust me high above his head to do Super Girl, flashes of pine trees whirling by above us.
I am from "If I wanted to build my house in a field, I would have built it in a field!" accompanied by a satisfied nod when Mommom complained to him about those pines.
I am from the comfort of cherry flavored tobacco, snuggled up in my Poppop's generous lap--the warmest, safest place to lay one's head at Mommom's house.
I am from "Welcome to the Family of the People Who Love the Lord" sung by warbling, honest voices in the tiny Baptist church on Rt. 54, and the tears that stung as a teenager as I tried to form those words, not understanding why I cried.
I am from "If you want to be baptized, you have to be nicer to your brother."
I am from elaborate hand-stitched Halloween costumes and my mother's smiles, crispy bacon and hot scrapple on a Saturday morning, cartoons blaring in the background from one of the three lonely channels the satellite provided.
I am from Friday nights under the lights and round-off, toe touch, cheer!  Green and Gold and the swelling victorious instruments blasting out "Da-da-da-da-da, hey!" beneath starry October skies.
I am from the love of my life staring at me in a high school chorus class, tossing my music on the floor or playfully touching my side, my shoulder.... tingles that brought back smiles hours and years later.
I am from dreams of getting off the Eastern Shore, palm trees of North Florida swaying under cloudless blue skies and college life with my best friend, who went 800 miles away with me after forming a playground friendship by the sliding boards in second grade.  I am from going back to where you came from, and so is she.
I am from a bustling, vibrant, welcoming church, filled with thousands of people who love Jesus and each other.  A church that grows and changes and laughs, while staying true to the scriptures.
I am from "Thank You," as my love's beautiful brown eyes fall on me in the hospital bed, our little Rose cradled contently in his arms.
I am from "She won't look like this when we see her again," and his hand on my shoulder as we hold our youngest in the oh-so-soft blanket--the only thing I will ever buy for her.
I am from never look back, or they'll see you as weak, and the thudding of sneakers on pavement as my eyes search for the finish line.
I am from rejection after rejection, sprinkled with glimmers of hope from agents who praise my writing ability, gently admitting my novel is not quite right for them.
I am from all eyes on me at open mics, and laughter and tears and comments that urge me to sit down and begin typing again.
I am from Dr. Puma's barely legible "I expect to see your name in print some day" scrawled across the bottom of my final memoir turned in for Non-fiction class.
I am from believing.

A Man By Any Other Name...

Is still your man.  But if your dad doesn't know his name...

Read on to find out what happens.

 

What’s In a Name?

            My dad was a great man.  He was a skilled carpenter who built his own house from the ground up.  He was an active father, cheering on all of his kids in their various sporting endeavors.  He was known to be the center of attention at the bars he frequented even into his sixties—he had one of those big, booming laughs that filled a room and made you wonder what kind of story he was telling… because he was also the kind of guy who laughed loudly at his own stories.

            For all the things he was great at… one thing he never did too well with was names.

            It didn’t take me too long to learn this.  The earliest example I can remember, and the most frequently recurring one, had to do with our neighbors, the Criswells.  I don’t know if there ever was a time that Dad actually knew their last name.  I believe he moved into our home around the time those Chevy Chase movies featuring the Griswalds started coming out, and I’d venture to say that if Dad happened to see the Griswald family on the big screen before he met the Criswells, it was highly unlikely he ever learned their actual names.  Maybe, if he met them before the Chevy Chase movies, maybe for a short time, he got it right.  I wasn’t around then, so I can’t say.  But what I can testify to, is that at any time growing up when my father mentioned the neighbors, always referring to them as “The Griswalds,” he was immediately chastised by my mother who would throw up her hands, roll her eyes, and scream, “CRISWELLS, John!  Criswells, not Griswalds!  We’ve lived next to them for twenty years!”

            This injustice, at least, was mainly done behind the neighbors’ backs, as I doubt my father ever found occasion to address them by their last name.  With my girlfriends, the humiliation was much more uncomfortable, as my dad routinely addressed them by the wrong names.  Pre-adolescent and teenage girls are embarrassed easily and self-conscious enough when no one in the room is paying the slightest bit of attention to them, so imagine throwing into the picture a boisterous, well-meaning, terribly loud, and completely unintentional and oblivious father into the situation, who, for the life of him, could not get the names of these girls straight!  While my girlfriend’s faces demonstrated that they were praying that they would melt down into the carpet and dissolve in order to escape, my father would continue jabbering on cheerfully, calling them by the wrong names every time the chance presented itself.

            He was especially bad concerning two of my best friends who, understandably, shared some physical traits.  Lindsay and Elizabeth (who went by the unusual nickname WizB) were both fair and petite.  And since Lindsay and WizB sounded similar, in my father’s brain, I’m not sure their names ever stood a chance.  Dad frequently mixed them up, calling Lindsay WizB, yelling for Lindsay when he meant WizB.  Eventually, his mind seemed to settle on one interchangeable term for both of them—he dubbed them both LizB and was done with the whole thing.  Efforts to correct him were futile, and, eventually, we gave up.

            The worst, however, was yet to come.  When I got into a serious relationship with a man named Rashieme, I knew that this name was going to be the biggest challenge yet for Dad to master.  When Rashieme and I found out we were having a baby, I was more determined than ever to make sure that this time, whatever the cost or humiliation, Dad learned Rashieme’s name.

            “Dad,” I said, sitting down with him one day.  “It’s really important to me that you learn Rashieme’s name.”

            “Machine?” Dad asked, scrunching his brow and glancing at me questioningly.  This was not the first time we’d had this conversation. 

            “Rashieme, Dad,” I said patiently.  “We’ve been together for several years.  We’re getting married.  We’re having a baby together.  As the father of your grandchild, I think it would be really great if, you know, you learned his name.”

            Dad paused as though he were in deep thought.  “Well,” he began finally.  “It ain’t like he’s got an easy name, like Tom, or Bill.”

            “Be that as it may,” I continued, “I would like for you to try.  Rashieme.”

            “Rashieme?”

            “Yes.  Rashieme.”

            Dad nodded as though the matter were settled.

            However, a couple weeks later, I got another first-hand lesson that proved to me that try you may, try you might, there are no guarantees when it comes to my Dad.  Upon my request, Dad was moving my childhood desk into our apartment.  He and his girlfriend showed up, rang the bell.  Dad greeted Rashieme with a smile, but, I noticed, made no effort to greet him by name.  I was actually a bit relieved, figuring Dad would wait for me to say his name aloud to refresh his memory before attempting to address my beloved.

            The visit was brief but friendly.  Dad and Rashieme moved the desk in, positioned it per my instructions, and then the four of us stood around chit-chatting for a bit before Dad informed me that he and his girlfriend had lunch plans and were about to head out.  I nodded, giving him a hug and a kiss.  Dad then turned his attention to Rashieme, gave him a grin and a congenial wave, before belting out, to my horror, “See ya later, Darnell!”

            Rashieme froze, smile plastered on his face, managing to wave back at my dad and watch the apartment door slam behind him.  It was only then when he turned to me, smile still on his face, and demanded, “Who the *insert explitive here* is Darnell?”

            After repeatedly assuring Rashieme that I didn’t even know a Darnell and had certainly never mentioned one to my Dad, and embarrassingly confessing that it was probably the only “black” name Dad could remember on the spot, my honey rolled his eyes and accepted my profuse apologies before getting ready for work.

            When I later confronted my father regarding this major disaster, he shrugged, and returned back to the “Not an Easy Name” defense.  You’ll be happy to know that by the time our child was born, Dad had managed to learn Rashieme’s name.

            He even learned his granddaughter’s—another “difficult” name—Kaliah.

            Now that my father is no longer here to mess up the names of my friends, the memories that used to annoy me now only bring a bittersweet smile.

            He took the time to learn Rashieme’s name, something that most of us would take for granted as a simple task.  And for many, maybe it would be.

            But how simple is it, also, to tell the people we love, quirky habits and all, that we love them?

            Just as easy, I’d presume, yet some of us let it go day by day, taking for granted that we’ll get another day to say the words or demonstrate our love.

            Inevitably, if you live long enough, you’ll lose someone that will make it clear for you that tomorrows aren’t promised, and what you have to say today, you might as well say it now.

            And while you’re at it, if you’re a dad… take the time to learn the names of your daughter’s friends.  And especially her boyfriend.  Trust me, she’ll appreciate it. 

In Memory of My Father...

Work Hard, Play Hard

            Once, my father broke his ankle.  He didn’t just break it though—he so completely obliterated the bones, that the doctor who ended up examining him in the hospital demanded to know if he had broken it sky diving.  Being a construction worker, he was out of work for several months thereafter, so not only was he suffering from a broken ankle, but I also believe he was living in fear that my mother might kill him.

            My mother and father did love each other, but their marriage was always a strained one, and a few years after the ankle episode, they finally ended up getting a divorce.  Mom certainly wasn’t angry that dad had injured himself, and while I know that his being out of work changed her life completely for that trying time period, that wasn’t really the reason she was so frustrated, I don’t think.

            She was at her wits end because my father had broken his ankle rollerblading.

            My father believed in working hard, but he believed in playing harder.  He loved skating, and had stopped at nothing to make sure my brothers and I were the best equipped kids in the state to succeed in roller hockey, our sport of choice.  Every few years, he lavished us with expensive, top-of-the-line inline skates.  We traveled at least thirty minutes first once and then twice a week for practice; he provided us with pads, helmets, hockey sticks, and, more often than we actually asked for it, one-on-one training time with him.  (Once, a stray slap shot of my father’s hit me so hard in the leg while I was standing by watching him work with my brother that I had to be carried into the house, sobbing).  Most middle schoolers I knew spent their Saturdays sleeping in, but my brothers and I were up at 7:30, being herded into our station wagon, dragging our hockey bags and sticks behind us as we climbed in for the trip to the skating rink.

            So one fateful Saturday, he had taken one of my brothers to one of his favorite finds for some informal, one-on-one scrimmaging.  They’d traveled a good thirty to forty minutes away to skate upon several unused tennis courts in a sprawling residential development, since the wooded coastal area we lived in wasn’t exactly crowded with paved streets or parks suitable for roller hockey.  The way Johnny had described it later, he and Dad had been racing for the puck, each determined not to let the other beat him as they flew toward the short wooden wall where the puck had bounced.  They were going so fast they were unable to stop in time, both of them smashing into the wall.  When my father’s lanky, six-foot-two frame had collided with the wood, he’d instantly dropped to the ground.  He had shattered several bones in his ankle upon impact.

            Dad was slowed down for a bit in the weeks and months that followed.  Though he did eventually skate again, he never even walked quite the same after the accident (though, don’t get me wrong, he continued to remain physically active right up until the day he passed away).  But his rollerblading incident occurred well into his fifties, and as this was before the time of cell phones, he had to drive himself home, using his left foot to work the gas and brake pedals, at which point he then had Mom take him to the hospital.  The doctors had been amazed that he’d been able to function enough through the pain to make that forty minute commute without losing consciousness.

            He continued to drive with his left foot all throughout the time his right foot was encased in a cast, and, surprisingly, eventually began driving with both feet, something I have yet to see another human being do.

            We were back at practice less than two weeks later, missing only the single hockey practice that took place the day of his surgery. The following Saturday, Dad simply tossed his crutches into the back of the station wagon and we were on our way, him driving us all the way with his left foot, intently watching us practice from the sidelines, calling instructions at my brothers and I:  “Shoot it!  Stay with him!  Defense!”

            The coach had warily watched my father hobbling in, and before scrimmage, he’d blown the whistle, barking, “Anybody that hits Mr. Meister with the puck owes me twenty laps!”

             I understand that this was an incredibly difficult time for my mother.  With Dad out of work, all the sudden she was working as hard as she could to feed herself and four other mouths, having never been the sole provider before.  Dad had injured himself playing a game rather than working on a job, and apparently, all his insurance would cover in the way of accidents was work place liabilities.  Since rollerblading into a wall could hardly be related to dry wall or metal studding, we were also faced with staggering medical bills from dad’s surgeries and treatments.  All because he was too stubborn to let his thirteen year old son beat him to the puck!

            Still, regardless of how Mom was feeling, I learned some things from my Dad based on this experience.

1)       Never give up.  Even if your dignity takes a hit later, at least you’ll know that, in the moment, you did everything you could in that instant to be the best you that you could be.

2)      Accept no limitations.  After the accident, I think most men my father’s age would have called it quits on sporting endeavors.  Not my dad.  He continued to jog, bike, and even skate, after the doctor cleared him to do so.  For that, I will forever admire him.

3)      Don’t forget what’s really important in life.  My dad changed his life by playing a game with his son.  At great cost to him—financially, physically, and emotionally—he endured suffering and ribbing from friends for years to come because of his intensely competitive nature, which had led to the accident in the first place.  But I believe, more than his desire to win that game with my brother, was the desire to show him what’s most important in life:  Try your best.  Give everything one hundred percent.  Find something that you love, and don’t lose your passion, no matter what anybody else says.  And above all, find a way to connect with your children.  Family is what matters most.  Years later, it’s not the lack of Christmas presents under the tree that they’ll recall, or the fancy vacation destinations you couldn’t afford.  That’s not what’s remembered; not at all… it’s the everyday moments and smiles.  The time spent together.  The hockey games you played with your kids, the times you chased them through the house and threw them onto the couch, the trips to the beach, when you were the only adult willing to brave the freezing Atlantic because your kids begged you to… that’s what they’ll remember.

I love you, Dad, and I sure do miss you.  I hope they have roller hockey in heaven.  If so, I’ll see you on the court.  I’ll be playing defense like I always did, so don’t go easy on me.  I don’t think we have to worry about breaking our bones in the afterlife, so I’ll be ready for your A game.