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Lonely is the Home Without You
The Poem I Read at Dad's Funeral
Dad's Obituary
Published in the Florida Times-Union, August 21st, 2007
Announcement
Mom had these cards made up for the funeral guests
Special Mass
Neighbors Holly & Barbie dedicated a Mass to Dad
Special Mass 2
Mom's Friend Charles Prince and His Wife Dedicated a Mass to Dad in Wisconsin
Special Mass 3
Our Friends the Connelly's and the Rozo's Dedicated a Special Mass to Dad
Uncle Jack's Poem
My Uncle Jack wrote a poem he dedicated to Dad
Nephew Peter Robinson's card
Mom received an outpouring of sympathy cards from around the country
Dad's Tree
Dad had a tree planted in his honor
Dad's Star - Who left the light on? I did!
I had a star named after Dad for all eternity
Macon Football Team 1944
Dad is on the upper right, #55 (17 years old)
Macon Basketball Team, 1945
Dad is standing just right of the coach
Dad always loved a good restaurant
Good Times at Applebee's
Mom & Dad with 2 of their 9 grandchildren
Mom & Dad, 2001 with Nicolina & Sydney
5 comments:
Though Dad didn't speak with an accent, he did have some Missouri pronunciations that we always liked to tease him about.
Dad always pronounced "Missouri" "Missourah", as did a lot of people his age from Missouri. I think if you were over 60, you called it "Missourah", and if you were under 60, you called it "Missouri". He also always called the days of the week "Mondee, Tuesdee, Wensdee", etc., as did a lot of folks from, ah-hem, "Missouri".
We loved our dad and just liked to tease him about some of the ways he pronounced things. He had such a good sense of humor, he'd always come up with a funny comeback. He used to always say "Sant Louis" instead of "Saint Louis". "Dad," it's "Saint Louis", we'd protest. But of course it did no good. The next time he said it, it was going to come out "Sant Louis". And sure enough it did... every time. Or should I say "ever" time?
Dad was always a big football fan, and though I wasn't, we'd occasionally go see a Jaguars game just for fun; and as a father-and-son thing to do together.
If you've ever been in a stadium, you'll recall that most are set up with these wide winding ramps around the outside to get you up to your level.
I remember in the late 90's how hard it was for Dad to walk up that ramp. We'd get up one level, and he'd say, "Let's rest for a minute." I'd wait for his cue, and off we'd go again up the next level, with Dad holding onto the side railing the whole way. But he always enjoyed the game, and it was worth the effort for him to hoof it up the winding ramp.
One year I got a little concerned he wouldn't be able to make it. A friend told us that they let senior citizens use the elevator, even though they weren't stadium club members.
So we headed right up to the elevator line, and they sized up Dad and sure enough, let us in. The next year Dad was in a wheelchair. "No problem," I thought. "They got plenty of handicap spaces up near the stadium." So off we went. I drove right up to a handicap spot with Dad, the wheelchair, and Dad's valid handicap pass hanging off the rear view mirror.
A cop came up and quickly shooed me away. "But he's in a wheelchair," I protested. It didn't matter. The handicap spots were all bought and paid for by the season ticket holders. The closest spot we could find to park was about 4 blocks away. I got Dad into the chair and started hoofing it down the street. It was chaotic to say the least. All the cars were in a hurry to park. All the pedestrians were in a hurry to get into the stadium before kick-off. Just navigating Dad in that chair was a challenge, both on the sidewalks and the streets. We finally got on the elevator and up to our level. I had arranged ahead of time for and end seat for me so that Dad could sit beside me in his chair. They had several top rows with that arrangement so you never had to navigate any stairs, and you'd never block the stairs for others either.
But it was particularly warm that day, and Dad wasn't enjoying himself in the heat. He asked if we could leave early, and of course I obliged. We listened to the game on the car radio as we headed home.
That was the last game we ever attended. Dad got to be too weak to travel soon thereafter, and eventually became totally bedridden.
When I struggled with the wheelchair, he used to always say, "I know I'm a burden." But I always assured him he never was. And he wasn't. Truth was, I enjoyed seeing Dad enjoy himself on a little outing. Seeing Dad happy made me happy. It was its own reward. And now I have the memories...
I couldn't ask for more. But if I could, it would be to have Dad back, navigating our way down the street, fighting our way to the stadium for just one more game.
I always remember how I looked forward to seeing him. He was always genuinely nice. For some reason I could not forget his big toe that was ingrown or whatever but I remember stepping on it accidentally as I ran through Grandma & Grandpas living room. I always made sure to step lightly around the toe after that.
Peter, he broke his big toe when he was 11. He was having an 11th birthday party, and for some reason they were digging a hole in the yard on his birthday. He hit his toe with the shovel.
I'm sure they never took him to the doctor, and so it never healed straight.
Mom said that after he hit his big toe with a shovel or hoe, his mom took him down to the basement to find some spider webs. She stuffed the open wound with spider webs to help control the bleeding. (Ugh!)
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