Oh my Elizabeth. I listened to this one, sitting outside with my dog. What a full spectrum of a “little” life. The story is honest and complex. Better even than the best eulogy, which tends to focus on our “Facebook” best selves. But even in describing his shortcomings, your voice is so clearly loving. You wanted to capture something whole, and you did here. I love the phrase “complex emotional inheritance,” (I have that,too!!) and the description of his laugh ending with his coughing.
And naturally I suppose, I thought about my own dad, also ordinary in his own way. But we don’t love people in proportion to the social (or political or environmental or whatever) impact they have. We love them I think because of their whole selves.
You said it...."We love them because of their whole selves". That is so true. I miss that whole generation of people. Very grounded and real. Great comment Stewart.
Delightful visual, picturing you sitting outside on this beautiful day, with your furry friend, thinking about your dad, mine, and how lives unfold. I am honored to know you found value in this piece, Stewart, and I take "honest and complex" as quite a compliment. Thank you! You're right, when we love fully, we love whole selves. 🩷
Such a good way to start my morning. Thank you. Now for the rest of my day I get to have my dad follow along (in my memories) doing things with me. I miss him very much and more so as each year comes close to his birthday. My mother and I were blessed by God to have given us such a man, to be my dad and my mothers husband. I thank God always.
This generation of men were so noble. I doubt any will be able to recapture it. Great write. I'm glad you had a true, down to earth man for a father.
Oh, Loretta, I love knowing that this piece brought you closer to your father for a little while. Like you, I prefer remembering birth days more than death days. When was your dad's?
We were lucky to have been born into "good guy" families -- noble is a suitable word. So many don't get that opportunity.
this whole piece is actually quite extraordinary. Loved every word, every perfectly honed description. Reminds me of Anne Lamott's essay in this week's WaPo (that's high praise, fyi). Here's to our quotidian days, to devotion and complexity, and to your gift of sharing.
Stephanie, I take your comment as high praise, for sure. I've long admired Lamott's ability to make meaning from humble sources, so thank you, thank you for connecting me with her, this with that piece, which I just read and saved. (Remarkably, actually, because I usually can't get past the WaPo paywall.) It's good to see you here. I hope all is well!
Lovely, Elizabeth! Made me yearn for my father's laugh and beautiful smile. I was just remembering yesterday the letters my mother TYPED (she was embarrassed by her handwriting) to me twice a week from the time I left for college until she finally decided I was never returning to my hometown. At that point, when I was probably in my 40s, she reduced her letters to once a week! Only when she moved into a retirement home in her late 80s did those letters stop. I don't think I really understood the love (and effort) that went into those missives each week, though I did appreciate hearing in detail about my extended family and friends.
Oh, Marcia, we could TALK about letters! I have scores of them from my mother, plus those she saved from the grandmothers. (I know I'll get through them all some day, but that day has not yet materialized.) My heart broke a little when my mother was no longer able to pen her notes to me.
I hope you were able to hear your dad's laugh, to see his smile. Really appreciate you sharing your thoughts today.
A full life, lived well with love. You said nothing extraordinary and I have to respectfully disagree and say these fathers, many of whom were also husbands, brothers, uncles, grandfathers, whatever role they were called to play, were extraordinary. It may have been the values of a different time and generation or a deep appreciation of the love of family and friends. I could speculate further and will save that for another time My Dad, born in 1912, would have been 112 this year. He was an ordinary man who did some extraordinary things and set an example for me and my brother to take with us into our adult lives. I tried passing along some of his wisdom to my two boys who knew him long enough to know and love him as their grandfather. We were blessed by his presence which was not, by our judgment, long enough. He died suddenly at age 67, just a few months away from retirement. That was 45 years ago and I still miss him every day.
Yes, Gary, you are so right! In fact, I slipped that word "extraordinary" into the subtitle, to acknowledge it without a lot of fanfare. I sometimes think we lose ourselves in the trying, and that it helps to know that ordinary is enough, that done well, it is everything.
I'm sorry you lost your dad at such a young age and that he was never able to experience retirement. I'm sure he was very proud of you and your brother.
I remember at some point realizing that, for most of us, once the people who know us all die, we will no longer exist in the way we do now--because most of us are ordinary in the way your dad was. You capture so beautifully why our lives matter anyway. Why they matter even though we are not perfect and do not always behave well. I so appreciate the way your portrait of your dad is both honest and loving; the honesty about his hard parts make the parts about your love for him more deep and true.
You ask about people we've known who are extraordinarily ordinary, and there have been so many it's hard to single any one out--family members, friends, teachers, colleagues, students would all be on my list. Your dad reminds me in many ways of my grandfathers, who were born in the 19teens. One, who died suddenly in 1981 when I was only 17, was a butcher. He fought in WWII, raised my mother and my grandmother's daughter from her first marriage, and cared for so many members of my extended family when they needed a place to stay. He golfed on Sundays, bowled on a team in a bowling league, and loved my grandmother easily and well. My family was boisterous, but he was quiet. While everyone else was laughing and telling stories in the kitchen, he was often in the living room, reading a book. He made me feel that I was probably biologically related to them all, which I sometimes wondered about. At his funeral, the line of cars behind the hearse as it traveled from church to cemetery stretched as far as I could see, a testament to the importance of a quiet, ordinary life. I've never forgotten that sight, and what it showed me about how to live.
Ah, Rita, your grandfather sounds like a special person indeed. "He made me feel that I was probably biologically related to them all, which I sometimes wondered about..." I hear you on this and am glad you found a kindred spirit in him.
By the time I was 17, I'd lost all of my grandparents, so I REALLY hope to have the chance to reconnect with them somehow, someday.
Thank you for your kind words and for being part of the community here. Both mean a lot.
This is a beautiful tribute - to the father you knew and to the ordinary life that most of us have. Our world skews things so that it seems being "important" is the goal, but millions are "important" in the day to day to a select few, a small group or more. It often bothers me that that we are supposed to care more when "x" happens to a celebrity.... when the reality is that "x" happens to "regular people" all the time, and we don't make the headlines. Weird world. What strikes me about your piece is the beautiful way you've given a rounded look, one that still has some edges but contributes to the whole. I think that can be challenging to sit with as a writer. You did it beautifully.
Yes, Amy, you've said it exactly right: "millions are "important" in the day to day to a select few." The recent past, maybe exacerbated by Covid, has been a time of thinking about how I can show up for good in my circles of influence. I think that's something my dad taught me well. Your comment at the end is thoughtful and much appreciated. Thank you.
I knew Bob well, I believe... I must say he was always the greatest of gentlemen to me and was thoughtful and kind and respectful to me as a person and as one of his pastoirs.... I was unaware of his childhood until now and reading your words and feeling some of his pain, he must have struggled greatly to just find his place in a demanding world.
You knew him well, and he (like many in his generation) was good at keeping a few secrets. I truly believe he found his heart's desire with family and close friends and that any leftover hurt from his childhood found a kind of peace there. It's hard to ask for more. I'm glad you were part of his life, Barry.
Oh gosh, what a beautiful post about such a special man, Elizabeth. How lovely to read your memories of him.
I met Jim's grandad when he was 98, and deeply valued what he brought to my life. He passed away a few years ago, aged 104, having lived an amazing - and challenging - life, and still having so much to offer.
I can't quite imagine living that long, Rebecca, but how wonderful that Jim's dad did so, and did so with a good spirit. I'm sure he was ready, by the time he died, to reunite with many loves who'd gone before him. Thanks for sharing your lovely thoughts.
This is lovely, Elizabeth. We don't get to choose our families or the circumstances in our growing up years. My parents were ordinary, too, and and I've written about both of them anyway. Because any imperfections were eased by the unconditional love.
I wish I could tell them now how very important they really were.
Good to see you, Ramona, and I appreciate the comment. Those of us who lucked into the good kind of ordinary are fortunate souls. Aside from the fact that we were a close knit family, one of the reasons I write about my parents is to give voice to how much they meant to me. I want to believe they get the message. Yours, too.
Your memoir was beautiful. Your dad left a truly great legacy behind. It consists of you and everyone else he came in contact with. Had I met him I would have liked him. Thanks for sharing this with us.
“I remember how dad’s voice, deep and resonant, emanated from his chest not his throat. I remember how he whistled two different ways, one a cheery, tuneful version, the other commanding and shrill.” I love how these lines capture the man and the whole of the piece—how we all contain multitudes. Beautiful tribute, Elizabeth.
How we all contain multitudes... Can you believe it wasn't so long ago that I first learned of that phrase? Now, I see it, both written and represented, everywhere and it's just perfect. Thanks for reading deeply, Holly and for sharing your wise observations in return. ❤️
Thanks, Mary B. My parents are mentioned here and there in my essays, but more than not the focus has been on my mother, who lived longer and, as you can tell from this piece, was more intimately engaged with us kids. I'm glad to have had occasion to spotlight my father in this one if for no other reason than to have a place to put all the feelings and reflections. It's great to see you here, and I appreciate your comment.
Oh my Elizabeth. I listened to this one, sitting outside with my dog. What a full spectrum of a “little” life. The story is honest and complex. Better even than the best eulogy, which tends to focus on our “Facebook” best selves. But even in describing his shortcomings, your voice is so clearly loving. You wanted to capture something whole, and you did here. I love the phrase “complex emotional inheritance,” (I have that,too!!) and the description of his laugh ending with his coughing.
And naturally I suppose, I thought about my own dad, also ordinary in his own way. But we don’t love people in proportion to the social (or political or environmental or whatever) impact they have. We love them I think because of their whole selves.
Just a lovely piece, Elizabeth.
You said it...."We love them because of their whole selves". That is so true. I miss that whole generation of people. Very grounded and real. Great comment Stewart.
Agree, Loretta. The Greatest Generation had a kind of resilience that was hard not to appreciate.
Delightful visual, picturing you sitting outside on this beautiful day, with your furry friend, thinking about your dad, mine, and how lives unfold. I am honored to know you found value in this piece, Stewart, and I take "honest and complex" as quite a compliment. Thank you! You're right, when we love fully, we love whole selves. 🩷
Such a good way to start my morning. Thank you. Now for the rest of my day I get to have my dad follow along (in my memories) doing things with me. I miss him very much and more so as each year comes close to his birthday. My mother and I were blessed by God to have given us such a man, to be my dad and my mothers husband. I thank God always.
This generation of men were so noble. I doubt any will be able to recapture it. Great write. I'm glad you had a true, down to earth man for a father.
Oh, Loretta, I love knowing that this piece brought you closer to your father for a little while. Like you, I prefer remembering birth days more than death days. When was your dad's?
We were lucky to have been born into "good guy" families -- noble is a suitable word. So many don't get that opportunity.
Thank you for spending time here today.
Oct 13 was my dads birthday. I did enjoy everything today and accomplished so much...happily.... with a joyful heart. Thanks again.
What a beautiful tribute to your dad, Betsy, and so well written. He was truly a kind-hearted man. Thank you for writing ❤️
Thank you for reading, Nancy, and for sharing fond memories of my dad. The same could most definitely be said of yours!
this whole piece is actually quite extraordinary. Loved every word, every perfectly honed description. Reminds me of Anne Lamott's essay in this week's WaPo (that's high praise, fyi). Here's to our quotidian days, to devotion and complexity, and to your gift of sharing.
Stephanie, I take your comment as high praise, for sure. I've long admired Lamott's ability to make meaning from humble sources, so thank you, thank you for connecting me with her, this with that piece, which I just read and saved. (Remarkably, actually, because I usually can't get past the WaPo paywall.) It's good to see you here. I hope all is well!
Lovely, Elizabeth! Made me yearn for my father's laugh and beautiful smile. I was just remembering yesterday the letters my mother TYPED (she was embarrassed by her handwriting) to me twice a week from the time I left for college until she finally decided I was never returning to my hometown. At that point, when I was probably in my 40s, she reduced her letters to once a week! Only when she moved into a retirement home in her late 80s did those letters stop. I don't think I really understood the love (and effort) that went into those missives each week, though I did appreciate hearing in detail about my extended family and friends.
Oh, Marcia, we could TALK about letters! I have scores of them from my mother, plus those she saved from the grandmothers. (I know I'll get through them all some day, but that day has not yet materialized.) My heart broke a little when my mother was no longer able to pen her notes to me.
I hope you were able to hear your dad's laugh, to see his smile. Really appreciate you sharing your thoughts today.
A full life, lived well with love. You said nothing extraordinary and I have to respectfully disagree and say these fathers, many of whom were also husbands, brothers, uncles, grandfathers, whatever role they were called to play, were extraordinary. It may have been the values of a different time and generation or a deep appreciation of the love of family and friends. I could speculate further and will save that for another time My Dad, born in 1912, would have been 112 this year. He was an ordinary man who did some extraordinary things and set an example for me and my brother to take with us into our adult lives. I tried passing along some of his wisdom to my two boys who knew him long enough to know and love him as their grandfather. We were blessed by his presence which was not, by our judgment, long enough. He died suddenly at age 67, just a few months away from retirement. That was 45 years ago and I still miss him every day.
Yes, Gary, you are so right! In fact, I slipped that word "extraordinary" into the subtitle, to acknowledge it without a lot of fanfare. I sometimes think we lose ourselves in the trying, and that it helps to know that ordinary is enough, that done well, it is everything.
I'm sorry you lost your dad at such a young age and that he was never able to experience retirement. I'm sure he was very proud of you and your brother.
I'm grateful for your presence here.
I remember at some point realizing that, for most of us, once the people who know us all die, we will no longer exist in the way we do now--because most of us are ordinary in the way your dad was. You capture so beautifully why our lives matter anyway. Why they matter even though we are not perfect and do not always behave well. I so appreciate the way your portrait of your dad is both honest and loving; the honesty about his hard parts make the parts about your love for him more deep and true.
You ask about people we've known who are extraordinarily ordinary, and there have been so many it's hard to single any one out--family members, friends, teachers, colleagues, students would all be on my list. Your dad reminds me in many ways of my grandfathers, who were born in the 19teens. One, who died suddenly in 1981 when I was only 17, was a butcher. He fought in WWII, raised my mother and my grandmother's daughter from her first marriage, and cared for so many members of my extended family when they needed a place to stay. He golfed on Sundays, bowled on a team in a bowling league, and loved my grandmother easily and well. My family was boisterous, but he was quiet. While everyone else was laughing and telling stories in the kitchen, he was often in the living room, reading a book. He made me feel that I was probably biologically related to them all, which I sometimes wondered about. At his funeral, the line of cars behind the hearse as it traveled from church to cemetery stretched as far as I could see, a testament to the importance of a quiet, ordinary life. I've never forgotten that sight, and what it showed me about how to live.
Ah, Rita, your grandfather sounds like a special person indeed. "He made me feel that I was probably biologically related to them all, which I sometimes wondered about..." I hear you on this and am glad you found a kindred spirit in him.
By the time I was 17, I'd lost all of my grandparents, so I REALLY hope to have the chance to reconnect with them somehow, someday.
Thank you for your kind words and for being part of the community here. Both mean a lot.
This is a beautiful tribute - to the father you knew and to the ordinary life that most of us have. Our world skews things so that it seems being "important" is the goal, but millions are "important" in the day to day to a select few, a small group or more. It often bothers me that that we are supposed to care more when "x" happens to a celebrity.... when the reality is that "x" happens to "regular people" all the time, and we don't make the headlines. Weird world. What strikes me about your piece is the beautiful way you've given a rounded look, one that still has some edges but contributes to the whole. I think that can be challenging to sit with as a writer. You did it beautifully.
Yes, Amy, you've said it exactly right: "millions are "important" in the day to day to a select few." The recent past, maybe exacerbated by Covid, has been a time of thinking about how I can show up for good in my circles of influence. I think that's something my dad taught me well. Your comment at the end is thoughtful and much appreciated. Thank you.
I knew Bob well, I believe... I must say he was always the greatest of gentlemen to me and was thoughtful and kind and respectful to me as a person and as one of his pastoirs.... I was unaware of his childhood until now and reading your words and feeling some of his pain, he must have struggled greatly to just find his place in a demanding world.
You knew him well, and he (like many in his generation) was good at keeping a few secrets. I truly believe he found his heart's desire with family and close friends and that any leftover hurt from his childhood found a kind of peace there. It's hard to ask for more. I'm glad you were part of his life, Barry.
Beautifully told, Elizabeth!
Thanks so much, Diane.
Oh gosh, what a beautiful post about such a special man, Elizabeth. How lovely to read your memories of him.
I met Jim's grandad when he was 98, and deeply valued what he brought to my life. He passed away a few years ago, aged 104, having lived an amazing - and challenging - life, and still having so much to offer.
I can't quite imagine living that long, Rebecca, but how wonderful that Jim's dad did so, and did so with a good spirit. I'm sure he was ready, by the time he died, to reunite with many loves who'd gone before him. Thanks for sharing your lovely thoughts.
This is lovely, Elizabeth. We don't get to choose our families or the circumstances in our growing up years. My parents were ordinary, too, and and I've written about both of them anyway. Because any imperfections were eased by the unconditional love.
I wish I could tell them now how very important they really were.
Good to see you, Ramona, and I appreciate the comment. Those of us who lucked into the good kind of ordinary are fortunate souls. Aside from the fact that we were a close knit family, one of the reasons I write about my parents is to give voice to how much they meant to me. I want to believe they get the message. Yours, too.
Your memoir was beautiful. Your dad left a truly great legacy behind. It consists of you and everyone else he came in contact with. Had I met him I would have liked him. Thanks for sharing this with us.
I do think you would have liked him, Monica. Thank you for the kind words and for spending a little time here today.
“I remember how dad’s voice, deep and resonant, emanated from his chest not his throat. I remember how he whistled two different ways, one a cheery, tuneful version, the other commanding and shrill.” I love how these lines capture the man and the whole of the piece—how we all contain multitudes. Beautiful tribute, Elizabeth.
How we all contain multitudes... Can you believe it wasn't so long ago that I first learned of that phrase? Now, I see it, both written and represented, everywhere and it's just perfect. Thanks for reading deeply, Holly and for sharing your wise observations in return. ❤️
What a clear-eyed, loving tribute, Elizabeth. I'll bet your dad would be proud.
That's a nice thought, Elizabeth. Thank you for taking time to read and comment. Much appreciated.
What a beautiful vignette of multiple years of memories of the man your dad was in and for your family.
Thanks, Mary B. My parents are mentioned here and there in my essays, but more than not the focus has been on my mother, who lived longer and, as you can tell from this piece, was more intimately engaged with us kids. I'm glad to have had occasion to spotlight my father in this one if for no other reason than to have a place to put all the feelings and reflections. It's great to see you here, and I appreciate your comment.