Melancholy Mornings

August used to be one of my favorite months.  

It meant that school was about to restart, allowing me to see all the friends I'd been missing all summer, even though that also meant the end of swimming lessons, where I had made other friends.  

It was a special month for family birthdays as well.  My eldest sister's birthday, with all the cousins and a bunch of friends coming over for a big bash, was always so much fun.

But as the years have come and gone, it's Dad's birthday that became more important...because I can no longer celebrate with him, give him the hugs and kisses I wish to give, whisper how much I love him and how much he meant to me....

His birth date was always easy to remember: 8/28/28

He was the youngest of nine children and the age difference between himself and his eldest sibling was 24 years.  He was an uncle many times over before he was even born, which was always amusing when a "cousin" made an appearance somewhere and I had to try to explain that to friends whose cousins were all close to our own age.  Of course, because there were so many and they had spread out by the time I made my appearance on Earth, I can't name most of my cousins on Dad's side, much less the second and third cousins.  I've been doing genealogical research for years trying to trace the various lines and have new "friends" on Facebook among the relations I've managed to locate.

Friends and family always speak about his sense of humor, as he was always one to go for the laugh.  His dance style always reminded me most of watching "The Wizard of Oz", as the Scarecrow's loose-limbed dance to "If I Only Had A Brain" was Dad's style.  

But he also had a temper.  It was rare for outsiders to see it, as he would bite his tongue, smile and bury it in front of the people he had to deal with on an everyday basis.  His children and the need to provide for his family mattered more than his own personal feelings, and he would do this rather than find himself needing to find a new job because he back talked the wrong person, but there were times when he would rage and throw things - usually out in his garage, where no one would be harmed except for him when he let the magma out of the well-tamped volcano.

I fought my own raging temper for years until I was able to do as my father taught me.

I also inherited his crooked smile, seen here in an undated photo of him with my mom, I suspect taken while they were dating before their marriage in 1956.

 

After watching him slowly go from this sweet, loving person who would do anything for his family to someone who looked like he'd been in a concentration camp over 18 months when I was supposed to be going out into the world to find my own way, I lost him on July 21, 1980.  My heart has never recovered.

So on this day, when I should have been requesting a day off in order to be able to celebrate Dad's 86th birthday with him, I'm writing a memorial to him while tears flow down my cheeks.  Instead of being able to hug him and kiss him and watch him play with his great-granddaughter, who is so much like him in her cheer and brilliant little mind, I pray that he is seeing her from wherever his spirit resides - and smiling like he always did.

I love you, Dad!