I have wonderful memories of dad. That is a good sentence and it stands by itself. Without examples, though, it does seem lonely. The moment that has been churning in my mind lately is a promise I made to never tell mominbox something. As of now, I have not uttered a syllable of his pronouncement, and since mominbox has nothing to do with a computer, I believe it safe to disclose this example here. (I just have to trust my local associates to never utter the information as well. Thank you.) Somehow the subject of beds came up and dad admitted that he chose the bed that had mominbox most comfortable. That seems logical, but he continued that the same bed had his back sore. He wanted to maintain that setup as his desire was to keep her comfortable. He then swore me to secrecy that I would never tell her that information. You all are now my confidants.

After he died, mom went to the special box in the bottom drawer and found all of the account information as well as an envelope of money. On the money was a note – “this is to tide you over until the insurance money comes.” On looking over that envelope, dad had been saving for most of a decade and included stuff like birthday gift money in that envelope. Are you getting a picture of the character?

Dad grew up in a small town having to deal with limited resources. When I came into the picture, we still had limited resources, but never went without food, clothes, games, and activities. Money was not plentiful, but with needs met, entertainment was easy to design ourselves. There was a shop in the basement where I spent untold multitudes of hours working with dad’s stuff.

Care for others was not a discussion, it was a lifestyle. We did not have a philosophical discussion of the merits of contributing to one’s church, we grabbed a box of tools and installed a railing. We fixed a door. We climbed a ladder and put screws in a loose fixture. No discussion, just activity. During the funeral, I remember the pastor’s wife saying that she used to ask her husband to fix – whatever – and then the pastor would call dad. She decided to remove the middleman and ask dad herself. *chuckle* Multiply that by attendees at the church and relatives on vacation. Fixing things for people was a skill and something he offered to those in need.

Part of me wants to go into a comparison to the occupy crowd, but I will stop here. Dad I love you.