Sarah’s Memories of Her Father

When I was little, my father would put me on his lap and read to me the Sunday funnies. There was a time I had him all mixed up with Dagwood Bumstead. After all, both went to work every day. And both joked about getting fired, which I horrifically envisioned as being chucked into a flaming coal furnace. But I wasn’t truly worried. After all, my papa showed up from work promptly at 5:30 each evening, except the nights he attended law school. And those nights he would call to say goodnight to me and my sister.

My father was the public relations director of the Colorado triple A. As such, he often went to tiny mountain towns on Saturdays to show traffic safety films. Either my sister or I would accompany him as his date, all decked out in those huge crinoline skirts of the 1950s, anklets with lace trim, sometimes even our white church gloves, and audiences would make much of us. I was so proud of my papa!

Neighborhood kids would come to the door of our ranch house in Denver and ask my father if his mommy would let him come out to play. They’d trail after him as he mowed the lawn, chatting away. My father championed manual push mowers as a superior form of exercise. Anyone here who ever heard him discuss his Washington Post paper route, which he kept until his mid-80s and which involved push-ups and pull-ups and exaggerated grimaces to firm the facial muscles, will understand his lawn mower sentiments.

My father read the Sunday funnies to my children, as well. And he always wanted to come out to play. He and my mother took the boys to community events, for hikes in the Blue Ridge, through the spooky Paw Paw canal tunnel. He taught my kids how to tie ties, volunteer in the community, and appreciate nature. My youngest would call after school. “Cal, want to go for a hike?” My father would lock up his Lake Anne Plaza law office and off they’d go to Difficult Run or Great Falls, usually with a small pastry break beforehand. 

Cause that’s the thing about my father. He was always there for people. Whether they were errant great nephews who’d missed the school bus for the umpteenth time or daughters left to raise sons alone or HIV/AIDS patients without a nickel for legal fees, my father was available to help. And that help came with no strings, no criticism, no repercussions.

My father died as he lived, a man for others. His last party was a celebration for the young mother of our household, who had just become a US citizen. His final action was to smile broadly at my mother when my nephew pushed the wheelchair up to the table with a flourish and said, “Look, Cal! There’s your wife!” And his last words were quiet and peaceful, as he looked out over Lake Anne. “The branches are not moving. The wind must be still. How beautiful.”

Indeed. How beautiful.