“Glad you got to see me!” That’s the last thing I said to my dad after our get-together for July 4, 2005, where we had burgers and hotdogs and potato salad and baked beans. It was just me, and mom and dad. My sister Elizabeth Gibson Dunn was in Texas with Justin and the kids, and I think Kristan Marie was with her dad and his family for the holiday. Mom and dad gave me a small bowl of beans to take home and we laughed crazily over the ‘generous portion’ of leftovers I was allotted. Actually, that was pretty much the last thing I said to my dad, ever. He passed away unexpectedly on the afternoon of July 6, 2005 (or, as my mind keeps track of it now, 07/06/05). It’s been 9 years. He was behind the wheel of his trusty old blue Chevy pickup, driving my mom and himself home from having dinner at Shoney’s in Marietta. He’d had the steak salad, I think it was. I wish it would have been liver and onions - one of his favorite meals - but he’d been good and attempted to eat semi-healthy. They were stopped at the light at the wonky intersection of Pike St and 7th St. They were waiting for their red light to turn green when the truck started to slowly creep/jerk forward a bit. Mom groused at dad to wait for the light to turn, not to be so impatient, and looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his chin down, his right hand was on the bench seat, and it seemed to be opening and closing. He was slipping away, his feet still on the brake and clutch, but they were slipping away as well. The truck rolled through the intersection and somehow, traffic allowed them to come to rest on the curb opposite without an accident or collision. I miss him every single day. It always gets worse this time of year. My first 4th of July after he passed away, here in Portland having just moved in with Bill a month previous, I was an emotional wreck and ended up calling my mom in tears because Bill wanted to put cheese in the potato salad for our first 4th of July together. Read that again. Yes, that’s right. Crying to my mom over potato salad. Of course, everyone KNOWS cheese doesn’t belong in potato salad, but it wasn’t worthy of the crying jag I went on. I can admit that now. Sorta. Paps.. that’s what we called my dad after Kristan was born and he went from Dad to Papaw… Paps would have agreed with me on the ‘no cheese’ front; he, of course, would have still eaten the cheese, just not IN the potato salad. Ok, fine, I’ll let it go. Paps was fun and funny. He once made a monkey puppet smoke a cigarette and it was the one of the funniest things ever. Every time I think about playing badminton in the driveway with him and mom and Ken, I crack up, thanks to his ‘turbo boosts’. I think I get my penchant for giving those closest to me nicknames from him. I was ‘Bug’ to him, and my sister was ‘Magpie’. We actually set up a ‘secret code’ for those times he had to call us up because mom was mad at us for something or other. He’d call us a ‘naughtyword’ and that would be our signal that he was only calling to yell at us because he had to, she was making him, but he really didn’t mean it. He loved his job, most of the time - and really, who doesn’t enjoy the work but dislike the bureaucracy and politics involved? He was in the W.Va. Army National Guard for almost 30 years. He passed away just 3 months shy of retiring, just shy of turning 60. He was so proud of those kids my age, or my sister’s age, who went into the Guard as well. He’d give us updates on them, these kids who became his coworkers. He was SO proud of those he served with, and they thought well of him, too. Even today, remembering the soldiers and officers and troopers who filed by his coffin at the service, one by one, saluting him one last time, brings tears to my eyes. He loved us, his family. My sister takes after the Gibson side of the family, getting dad’s nose and height, or lack thereof. I take after my mom’s side, apparently taller and sturdily built. If you put me and my sister side by side, you wouldnt think us related, but we are our parents’ kids. He loved his grandkids so much. He was lucky to know Kristan Marie, and Zachary, and little Liam before he had to go. He’s missed out on the luscious Ms. Poppy; he would have been as smitten with her as the rest of us are. I’m also certain she would be as taken with him as the rest were. They all loved his mustache, which happened to be the same age as my sister. He started growing it when she was born, and it lasted the rest of his life. I like to think that he’d be proud of me now, proud of the life I’ve built here with Bill and all our puppies and volunteering. I’m sure Paps and Bill would have gotten along - poor men, both subject to chatty women who prattle on endlessly when we get together. I think he’d like our pups, I think he’d like Portland, I think he’d like where I’ve ended up and the life I’m living. My sister is fortunate that she gets to see Paps now and again in her dreams. I wish I did; I like to think that maybe I do but I just don’t remember. There’s so much I’d love to talk with him about, share with him, laugh with him. Every day, I miss him. I like to think he knows that, wherever he is out there.
Posted on: Sun, 06 Jul 2014 23:52:22 +0000
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