TEMBA Gazette, Running Commentary, June 26, 2009

In my last commentary, I referenced a recent phone conversation with my father in which we discussed his 1959 Chevrolet Impala convertible. Little did I know that it would be the last time I would ever talk to him. As most of you now know, my father died on June 6th, roughly 36 hours after that phone call. He had been in declining health for several months, but I guess I refused to accept the inevitability of his passing. He was only 72. He would be able to get through this I thought. He would be back on his feet by football season. It was not to be.

After climbing the last hill or completing the last stretch of a long run, I usually say to myself “hard part over.” Selfishly, I approached my dad’s death in the same way. I dreaded the trip to Tennessee. I didn’t want to deal with the formal stuff – the arrangements, the visitation, the funeral, the burial. I didn’t know if I could remain strong for my mom, the woman he had been married to for nearly 50 years. I didn’t want to face the sadness, the tears and the grief. I just wanted the hard part to be over.

The visitation was scheduled for five hours – five torturous hours. My dad had been an educator in my hometown for nearly 35 years; serving as a teacher, guidance counselor, principal and school superintendent; so we expected a large turnout. A crowd began gathering before the doors even opened and I braced for a tearful and somber experience.

But then a funny and remarkable thing happened as my family and I began greeting the long line of friends, classmates, former students, colleagues and well wishers. Instead of tears, there were smiles. Instead of sorrow, there was laughter. Instead of anguish, there was celebration.

For five hours, I heard stories of how my father influenced the lives of others. More than one person told me my dad was the reason they stayed in school. Others told me how instrumental he was in helping them land a first job. I was deeply touched by stories, many of which I had never heard before, of how my dad provided life-changing instruction, guidance, assistance, discipline and support. It was like the final scene of It’s a Wonderful Life, only my dad, the stories and these people he touched were real. The five hours went by quickly and an event I initially dreaded turned out to be something I will remember and cherish for the rest of my life.

I now realize that the hard part is probably just beginning. Hills and tough stretches remain. Yet I also know that while my dad is no longer here, his legacy will live on in the lives of those he helped stay in school, get jobs, choose paths and pursue dreams. His influence, of course, also had a dramatic and life-lasting impact on me. If I only provide a fraction of the guidance, counseling, support and friendship that he did, then I shall consider my life a success.

So, thank you Dad. Thank you for being there for so many people. Thank you for having such a genuine concern for your students, colleagues, family and friends. You left us way too soon, but your caring influence and good work will continue for years to come. Here’s a toast to you, Dad: the richest man in town.