I grew up in one of those "Leave It To Beaver" households. Nothing much ever happened, and nothing much ever went wrong. If it did, it was usually solved by the end of the episode that night
I have an older sister Kathy, and an older brother Bradley, whom has always been called by our family, "Bobby." No one else in the world calls him that, probably no one else is allowed.
My Mom and Dad are Brad and Betty, "The Beans." We had one of those houses where everyone was welcomed, where if you came to our house, you were one of us.
After my nephew, Craig, was born, my mom became "Grammie" to everyone, and every kid in town that has contact with her, affectionately knows her as "Grammie Bean." She's a hot ticket, 65 years old, and looks all of 40. She's like the Energizer Bunny, she keeps going and going and going.
She's got the gift of gab...I guess that's where I got it from. I used to roll my eyes at her as a teenager when she would talk to everyone, everywhere, in the grocery store, the waiting room, etc.
Now, I have to admit, I have become my mother. My extroverted personality stems directly from her.
She loves to do crafts, can knit a sweater in about two days time, and has talent that puts me to shame.
She's an awesome Mom, I wouldn't trade her for the world. She does spoil my kids a whole lot more than she ever spoiled me, but she calls that "Grandmother privileges."
My Dad died on March 22nd, 1998, the day before Paige's first birthday. Click here to see a very special dedication made by my friend shari.
Just before Christmas, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He had been retired less than a month. He and my Mom were going to travel the United States in their Winnebago.
Dad returned home from Florida, and fought so hard to beat the monster that took his life.
The last three months of his life were both the most horrible, and, in some ways, the most beautiful months we had with him.
My father was a man of quiet dignity, never really saying much, but in his silence, saying it all. I can't ever remember him raising his voice, can't ever remember a moment when he needed to. We wanted to respect him, wanted to please Dad, and make him proud of us. I think we all did a pretty good job of it.
He had an wonderful sense of humor, one I think I inherited, and I often find myself laughing at something I know he would laugh at too.
Knowing that he was terminally ill brought my father's personality out with vibrance. Suddenly, he wanted to talk, and talk he did. He talked about his life, about bringing up his family, about how much each of us meant to him. He brought us all together when we hadn't been gathered in the same house for years.
There are so many bittersweet memories I have of Dad's last days. He was wheelchair bound toward the end, and still so insistent that he got exercise. He would have us wheel him around and around the house, 'around the loop one more time' he'd say. I'd give anything to take him around that loop one more time
Dad would plan elaborate meals, and in an effort to get him to eat, they would be fixed for him, we would all sit down and eat way too much, just to make him happy. He lost track of time a lot, and I remember him getting my brother and I up one morning at 5 a.m. and wanting us to have a beer.
I think he tried really hard to find humor in his illness, and sometimes he would carry a joke on and we would think he was totally incoherent, only to have him laugh when we believed it.
I could write forever about memories of my Dad. I loved him like I love no one else in the world. I was, and still am, the consumate "Daddy's Little Girl." The person I am, the person I will strive to be, is because of my parents, the way I was raised and loved.
He died as he lived, with dignity, slipping away from us, and escaping the monster that so devastated his body. Together with my Mom and sister, we wrote Dad's eulogy, something he would have been so very proud of. I spent a lot of time talking to him, and I knew just what he wanted us to say.
The saddest thing for me is that Dakotah and Paige will not remember Grampa as they get older. But I will keep him alive for them, telling them all the stories of my childhood, playing the same games with them that he did with me, making them laugh, and letting them feel immensely loved every moment of every day.
I miss you so much, Dad. Miss the sound of your voice. The way your hand could still make mine feel tiny. All the little idiosyncrasies that made you Dad. I would have done it in an instant for you if I could have.
Thank you, Dad, you
did a terrific job. I love you will all my heart.
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