My Father was a remarkable man, and he lived a long and truly blessed life. When he died on May 20th, he was almost a hundred and one years old, and I might have entirely missed knowing and appreciating him.
I was sitting with Dad on the broad porch of his retirement home in Kennebunkport Maine. We were about 5 miles inland from the shore of the Atlantic. The sky was a very clear bright blue. A few light clouds were drifting slowly westward from the beach. He pointed towards the most distant and said, “Watch that one furthest out. It looks like it will roll in, but it won’t make it here. They all disappear.” I looked up and noticed that the sky above us was completely clear. Together we quietly watched the progress of soft white shapes drifting towards us as they gradually faded and then vanished.
My Father had just turned 100. I had flown in from San Francisco for the celebration and now a cab would take me to the train and back to Logan Airport. Although Dad was in very good health and his mind was as sharp as ever, I was not sure if I would ever see him again. Ashish and I had a trip planned to India the next year, and there was a quiet insistence from Dad that I travel to all the places he had dreamed of visiting. I felt a very deep sweetness in that moment. I wasn’t sad, perhaps a bit melancholy, but any regret had vanished just like the clouds drifting in from the Atlantic. It sounds trite, but I think we were both very much at peace. I loved this man very deeply, and finally after a lifetime of a strained relationship under all the Yankee emotional damping down, we were both just comfortable sitting silently side by side.
Just a few years before, this would not have been possible. I had entered the Jesuits after college, encouraged as much by separating myself from the emotional turmoil of my adolescence as by some vocation or higher calling. And in the process of unraveling those emotional knots, I had to separate myself from my parents. Thankfully that process didn't last beyond our life spans.
I have no idea where to begin, there are so many stories about my Dad’s intelligence, his impeccable memory, his endless curiosity and quick wit. His golfing buddies will testify how much he loved the sport and bridge partners will swear that he remembered every card played even when he was more than 100 years old. People will tell stories about his work ethic, his writing and stamp collecting. He was devoted to his family, our mother Lee, her sister Judy, his Dad, his brothers, our Uncle Donny and Rich, Uncle Chunk, his wife Freddy, and Bill, Don’s partner, his seven grandchildren and six great grandchildren as well as his many deep friendships.
I want to share one memory that changed our relationship. It’s also about memories. On one of my first visits to Huntington Commons, in part to hide my trepidation about not having visited for a long time (I almost called it off and probably would not have made the trip without Julie’s encouragement and support) plus my personal fears about not measuring up, I tried to start a fun conversation--reminiscing about growing up.
My father and I played a game: I can remember that friend with 5 clues. (Spoiler alert—Dad always won).
We went back to the time when he was a young dad, soon to have 4 kids, a new business, and the responsibility for an extended family that included our maternal grandmother, Nana, and mother’s sister, Judy, who was suffering from TB at a time when cure was far from certain. But our family life, thanks to both Mother and Dad, extended beyond those concerns.
Our parents had a close circle of friends, other young couples in Nichols. Bif and I went up and down Huntington Turnpike, and talked about the people we grew up with and their kids. Their shared experiences included learning life’s lessons during the Great Depression and fighting a great war, raising families and building schools, bike trips on Nantucket and family summers on Cape Cod. Bob and Louise Dunning, Dick and Barbara Sargent, Les and Shirley Nothanagle, Mae West, Dave Peck, the Flemming's with their eight kids, Bif remembered everyone.
Then there was the Milford Yacht Club, our memories of the countless summer weekends when we campaigned our Lightning up and down Long Island Sound and our sailing friends, Wayne Brockett, the life guards and sailing instructors who Dad had a hand in hiring. He spearheaded the first World Championship for the Lightning class in Milford, and that opened up the opportunity for him and mother to travel to Italy and Peru. When we talked about Ned and Emily Daly, their sons Ned and Jerry, he had me pick up the phone and call Ned Junior.
From the days of Ireland Heat Treating on the Post Road, we talked of his many loyal workers, his long-term secretary, Hilda Graff, who was almost part of our family, and the men who’d encouraged Dad to go out on his own.
We drifted in and out of this conversation over the three days we spent together. For more than 60 years I believed a story I made up: that my Dad was distant, that just because we’d had a difficult time communicating (and of course that was entirely his fault, not mine), that Dad was somehow self-absorbed and not really in touch.
Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
He remembered details that I’d entirely forgotten or never heard before. But what really astonished me was the level of feeling, the kindness and compassion in his recollections. He talked of the happy events and the sad moments, the setbacks as well as the accomplishments in a way that made them present. It was so clear that he cherished these men and women. As we talked I could see his face change. I felt his admiration for their successes, sadness for their losses, and gratitude for their friendship. I can also tell you that if there was any funny story about any of the people we talked about, he told it with his gentle laugh and bright smile. That weekend he gave me a real gift—himself.
When I talk to my friends about my father, they are amazed that he lived such a long life, and that it was such a happy and rich life right to the end. They ask, “What was his secret?” Those of us who were close to him know that he was not perfect by any means, that he had his share of disappointments and sorrows, but when I look at his life for an antidote to life’s sufferings I marvel at the wonderful way he connected with so many people, accepting and treating everyone with an even hand, balanced with good humor and love.
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