Memories

Tomorrow would've been my dad's 60th birthday. I don't wish him happy birthday every year or do anything special, it's just not me. And some years that pass are harder than others, some aren't as bad. This year it is ten years since he's been gone and it seems to be a little harder than it has been. But maybe that's because I don't remember how I react one year to the next.

So I was going through some of his old slides. Many of them have a funny line down the side from when the slide scanner decided to poop out. But it's the meaning behind the photos that are important.

This is one of my favorite photos of him. Walking on the rocks at Sunset Cliffs with Chris in the carrier on his back.

This brings to mind a couple of things. One- apparently at one point my dad was leaning over the cliffs with my brother on his back like that and my brother slipped out and fell over the cliffs. He was completely silent and did not cry at all. They were terrified. He was amazingly ok. Second- when I was a little girl, my dad came home from scuba diving or skin diving and his knee was all bloodied and messed up. The first story he gave me was that it was from us kids bouncing on his knee all the time. The second story he gave me was that he was attacked by a shark. When I was 14 I was telling my dad how I was afraid of sharks and he was trying to convince me that that was ridiculous and your chances of getting attacked by a shark are incredibly slim. "But you were attacked by a shark!" I replied. He looked startled, "When?" he asked. I recounted the story. He laughed. He had slipped on the rocks and it had cut up his knee. I believed it for over ten years.

When he went scuba or skin diving, he would also go spear fishing.

I believe that is called a guitar fish. I also believe that we ate it. He brought home lobsters, fish, and abalone as well.

My brother and I with some of his catch.

Carving pumpkins, I am tasting mine.

Camping, eating pancakes with Dad.

My birthday perhaps.

My dad raced downhill skiing in college at U of M.

And had some of the wildest hair.

I remember him doing the inlay on this table. He cut every little piece of wood and would sand them down to fit, different types of wood for different colors.

I remember the smell of the wood and the sound of the little detail sander. The late nights he spent on it. He made our bunk beds, our toy box, and I vaguely remember something about a cradle or crib for Chris.

He enjoyed photography.

Our last Christmas together, the boys flew back to Michigan to spend it with Mom. Dad and I drove up to Bear Mountain to ski. I was just getting over a stress fracture in my tibia (lower leg) and wore out easily. I made him take me down the bunny slopes, because I can't ski. Along the way I convinced him to go over a couple little jumps. I think he was surprised by how much the impact hurt at his age. I regret that I left my camera in the car and didn't get a single picture of us. But I took photos as he drove. Before we left, I set him loose on the slopes and sat at the base of the black diamond hill and waited for him. Letting him relive some of his glory days.

I got married very young, far too young. But one of the most precious things I got from that, is that I got to dance with my dad.

It was to Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance".

We scattered some of his ashes out in the Pacific Ocean, in sight of the OB pier. As the ship captain sifted the ashes into the water, I dropped rose petals on top, from his rose garden. The shimmer of the sun off the ash let off a greenish glow like phosphorescence. I bet he would've thought that was pretty cool.