It
was darn cold this afternoon, but I decided to walk from the Marc's parking
lot, across the street to the cemetery to visit Dad's grave. Not sure why,
exactly, tho I was looking for some exercise and that seemed as good a place
as any.
But I think there's more... I'm still coming to terms in some way with his death. I don't feel that there was a lot of love between us, but today as I walked down the wind-swept roads, past his grave all the way to the mausoleum and back, I came to a realization or two.
Dad didn't show his love in any obvious way, never said "I love you" that I can remember, but I'm convinced that he did the best he could in his way. I'm sure he loved me, but I think growing up as he did, the way you expressed that was by working a job for 30-some years despite the fact that you didn't like it, paying the bills, keeping the house in good repair, providing me with all the necessities and a luxury or two. Well, not luxury, exactly, but he did always have an extra car for me to drive when I was a teen, tho it wasn't really my car.
So I'm sure Dad loved me, but it would have felt better if he'd made that clearer when we had the chance. I'm hoping that I'm doing a better job with my kids, that they know more clearly that I love them. I try to say it often, try to talk with them from time to time about important stuff (something Dad never did).
So I walked for a half-hour or so, sometimes with tears freezing on my cheeks, talking to him and to myself. As I walked I thought that Dad did teach me something by living the way he did. He pointed me towards a better way to be a dad. And I'm pretty sure I'm not doing the best job at that myself, but I look at Danny and think that's he's learning from me, and doing a better job of it. So I guess it's a gradual evolution of dad-ness, and I thank mine for pointing me in the right direction.
What's wrong with this picture?
Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in Brook Park, OH has a mausoleum that looks like a drive-through: a big overhang lets you pull right up to the doors. I walked up and peered inside to see what it was like: stained glass windows, a long corridor lined with what looked like marble file cabinets. I tried the door and to my surprise it opened, so I walked in.
On both sides of the main aisle were racks of flickering candles. But not real candles; instead electric lights in red plastic cases that have a random flickering built in. Neat and clean. Low maintenance. No nuns required to clean up melted wax and put new candles in when the old ones burn out. Also no chance for a random visitor like me to light a candle in memory of a loved one, like I did when we visited Notre Dame in Paris. How American.