See You Later, Dad

We lost my dad this week. His passing was completely unexpected, as were most things he did.

I hate that I didn’t get to talk to him one last time. Yet, his Irish goodbye in leaving this world was right in line with the way he preferred to duck out of most gatherings, so I’ll give him that one final pass.

My dad was always a strange bird who marched (or rather, drove 90 MPH down winding country roads) to the beat of his own drum. Bouncing between being an extrovert who hosted weekend-long, Woodstock-style parties with hundreds of friends on our forty-acre property in the summer in the 90s and, more recently, an introverted recluse who would spend days holed up, just him and his beloved dog, Rufus (“Roofy”), tinkering around the house with whatever projects he felt needed tending to.

He was a master tinkerer. He was a lot of things.

As happens to us all when a loved one leaves this earth, I’ve had flashes of memories over the past several days—between coordinating arrangements, writing his obituary, and researching all our next steps—that have kept me going. Some that have lived at the forefront of my mind, and some I’d long forgotten.

Dragging Zen and I out of the house as kids after too many hours in front of the TV, claiming, “you need the stink blown off ya.” In the summertime, we’d make our way down the road to the Salamonie Reservoir in his topless Jeep, the wind whipping our sun-bleached hair into knots, to a hidden little inlet that we always had all to ourselves. Our own “swimming hole.” In the winter, he’d fix a sled to the back of his giant orange tractor and pull us down the same road when it was covered in ice, as we feared for our lives and screamed in delight, the sled gliding back and forth behind him. When we were older, we traveled that same path, but with us in the driver’s seats of the decades-old Mercedes turbo diesels he’d fixed up for us years before we’d gotten our permits, as he taught us how to drive.

We spent countless hours “snipe hunting” with him, especially when we’d have friends staying over, and it took us years to realize how drastically his descriptions of said snipes always changed. I still have visions, when trekking through forests at night, of us waiting with our open sacks, making all kinds of absurd noises, to attract and capture squirrels with beaks, raccoons with wings, and birds with fluffy tails and glowing eyes.

We had this incredibly long, gravel driveway, and, living in the middle of nowhere, were some of the first kids to get picked up by the bus in the morning. He’d occasionally walk us out and wait for us to board or happen to be outside waving when we got home. When I told him how embarrassing this was as a moody pre-teen, he started “hiding,” always behind the most stick-thin trees, darting from one to the next, making it even more obvious he was there. At one point, he built a shanty out by the road for us to huddle into and stay warm while we waited for the bus in the winter months, when it was pitch black and below zero.

He was my biggest supporter when it came to my writing. He’d read every single article I wrote for my high school newspaper and mark it up with his commentary. He was convinced I should skip college, drive my portfolio to Rolling Stone headquarters, and become a famed rock ‘n roll journalist. When my friend and I skipped a day of school senior year to wait in line all day for a Bob Dylan show at the Wizards stadium, he randomly showed up in the parking lot, rolled his window down, shouted my name, and started waving a stack of papers around. As I ran over, he said, “Hey, sis! Here’s your golden ticket!” He’d made hundreds of copies of an article I’d written about Bob Dylan and encouraged us to pass them out and throw as many as we could on stage so someone from the crowd or Dylan’s crew would see my byline and feel inspired to seek me out. Which we did. (Spoiler: I’m still waiting for a follow-up, but I like to think Bob read it.) 

When I came home from a year of studying abroad in England, he asked me why I came back and claimed that he didn’t think I belonged in America, I belonged overseas, exploring the rest of the world. He was always fascinated hearing about my travels after that and would often research places I was going before I went or while I was there to share things he thought I might not have come across in my own planning and didn’t want me to miss.

On my visits home when I was in college, and in my twenties, he’d often sneakily remove the fake daisies I had in the flower holder of my Beetle and replace them with teensy bouquets of fresh wildflowers that I’d only notice while driving away.

When I was helping my parents move out of their house in 2018, I found a bag of something that caught me totally off guard in the basement. It was full of things from my first serious boyfriend that I’d thrown in the trash when we broke up in 2009. Dad had salvaged several items without my knowing—primarily a box of sweet classroom notes my ex had written me—and bagged them up with a note of his own that read something like, “I know this was all hard to look at in the moment, but I thought you may want to revisit some of this down the road, because it was a good thing while it lasted, and I think you’ll look back fondly on the happy memories later.” And he was right.

Anytime I had an issue with my car, or house, or a device, he’d have a solution within minutes… and beat himself up if he couldn’t figure it out. One time, I showed him how low and awkwardly placed the shower head in my first apartment was and thought nothing of it. Weeks later, he showed up at my door with a contraption he made from found parts at home, that fit perfectly, completely changing the angle of the shower head like it was always meant to be that way—after just that one quick glance, from memory. I still feel guilty that in the second grade, he basically did my whole fiber-optics science experiment for me, but even then, I could tell he thoroughly enjoyed it. Way more than helping me with math homework, which usually involved a lot of tears on my part.

Jeremy and I still laugh when we think back on how a bunch of us were packing up the venue after my brother and sister-in-law’s wedding and my side of the family didn’t even register that he’d whipped off his dress shirt and tie, slipped his worn bandana on his head to keep the hair from his eyes, and gotten to work playing Tetris as he loaded up all their gifts into his station wagon. That was typical dad fashion for us—either completely shirtless or sporting one of his tie-dye Pink Floyd shirts (often worn inside out, intentionally)—always with a bandana headband (or a bucket hat, if he really meant business).

My cousin shared a story a few years ago about how her and some girlfriends were driving on Highway 24 and came up behind a wagon cruising in front of them that they all noticed and commented on. “Look at how happy that guy looks with his windows down, music blaring.” “Oh wait, do you see that dog in the passenger seat? So cute!” “I wanna be like him someday!” They sped up to get a better look, only for my cousin to exclaim, “Wait! That’s my uncle Dwight!”

If you knew him, you’re likely familiar with his conspiracy theories and fascination with all things supernatural. Our text thread is full of videos of the night sky and his commentary about stars looking suspicious and objects moving in ways that defied the natural order of things. Figuring out how to watch those clips in slow motion, for him, was the game-changer of the century. He also sent countless photos of what he believed were orbs floating across his yard or living room (arrows and circles drawn to identify them). He was convinced he saw Big Foot, or its relation, casually strolling across the road near home a time or two, and I must admit, I never wanted to look too closely when crossing that stretch in the dark. I think the first book he ever gifted me was Chariots of the Gods. When I was nine.

He had more quirks and interests than you’d think humanly possible. My friends would often comment when they came around to visit that he needed his own reality show as they watched him putz around the yard, building contraptions, troubleshooting things, or just wandering and staring, hands on his hips, lost in thought (Jeremy tells me I, too, do this often). They’d be even more tickled when he called us all out to help with the most random tasks or kept us up late telling us about his encounters with UFOs.

He starred in several of the home movies Zen and I made in middle school, usually as the comic relief. He’d come out to support Zen’s shows, despite not really vibing with hardcore music, but even more so, not understanding the concept of mosh pits, always quickly peeling himself away from the wall and attempting to “break it up,” much to the amusement of me and my friends.

He had a routine of getting a large pizza from Kermit’s every Wednesday that would last him the week, and when he moved to Hartford City, continued the tradition with Pizza King. The family received regular reports about what kinds of birds were or were not in the yard that week and his theories as to why (and anyone who got any kind of text from him can attest that it was always like deciphering some strange, secret code—which he’d often clarify with a voice note). He also sent countless screenshots of breaking news updates or Wikipedia pages with his commentary scribbled atop them, or made-up headlines and news stories that were so absurd, but that I sometimes fell for.

One summer, he decided to take most of his baths in the pond, making his way out each day with a towel and a bar of Irish Spring soap. He’d sometimes fry eggs in a pan on top of the wood burning stove in our den to avoid using the actual stovetop. When he was standing at the altar at his best friend’s wedding and the officiant asked for the rings, dad quietly muttered, “oh shit” upon realizing he’d forgotten them. He make-shifted a pair of “roof shoes,” a pair sneakers with sponges attached to the bottom, for added traction when walking around on the roof. When he and some friends took us kids to the Indy 500 trials when I was maybe four or five, it was scorching hot and he let me dress myself. I chose wintertime leggings and was miserable the second we stepped out of the car, so he grabbed his pocketknife and turned them into shorts.

His lullabies came in the form of Aerosmith songs. He told us countless stories about hitchhiking around the country and seeing some of the biggest bands of the 70s and 80s. I almost always answered to “Pumpkin Pie” as a kid (perhaps this is what led to my pumpkin obsession), until he switched to calling me “Sis” sometime in my teens. He gave me a hard time about being a vegetarian in high school, but in more recent years, told me how he tried veggie burgers of his own will… and liked them. He sent more updates about (and selfies with) Rosie when he was watching her than I think I’d gotten if I left him with a human child. For the last ten years, I don’t think he went anywhere without Roofy by his side. One time, while dad was running into Wal-Mart, Roofy jumped out the cracked passenger window of his little red truck and casually made his way into the store looking for him. He struggled to accept gifts, and always came bearing the most practical ones for others. He never asked for anything in return after helping someone out. I’m not sure I ever left the house at night to drive somewhere without him saying, “Careful sis, watch out for the deer.”

There’s no doubt I got my love of music, my awkward nature, my fascination with history and the surreal, and my passion for problem solving around the house from my dad. But there’s a lot I didn’t naturally inherit that I came to admire, and that I’ll always strive for, especially now. He spoke his mind, even if he knew it might piss people off. He didn’t spend a bit of time or energy caring what others thought of him when out and about. He showed up on his own time (always at least an hour or a day late), but always made an entrance.

He lived life full and fast… and on his own terms. And maybe sometimes a little too dangerously. But he had a damn good time doing it.

I’ve been planning a trip to the United Kingdom for the past year and am meant to leave this weekend. When I got the news, my first thought was to cancel and stay home to mourn. But it wasn’t long before I heard his voice saying, “Screw that, sis. Don’t stay here on my account.”

I can’t stand the thought that I won’t be able to send him photos for him to dissect or tell him stories about chasing down the Loch Ness monster and driving on the wrong side of the road and exploring haunted, medieval streets. I like to think though, that maybe now, he’s getting to see it all with me, somehow.

So, I adjusted my flight and I’m packing my bags—bringing my grief and shock along for the ride—and doing exactly what I know he’d want me to do.

Living life full and fast… and on my own terms. And maybe a tad dangerously.

Running a day late.

And having a damn good time.

Love you dad.

I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.

—Aly Nicole (Sis)

Family and friends: It would mean the world if you could comment with your favorite memories of Dad. There have to be hundreds of stories Zen and I haven’t heard, and we’d love to read about them and allow others to enjoy them, too.

Thank you for loving him and being a part of his life, and making it one so worth living.

And thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for all the support you’ve shown us and our family as we navigate our loss. He had a phenomenal village.