Anniversaries

We think of anniversaries as something to celebrate. The mark of the passing of another year of marriage or service in a job or some other joyous occasion. Sometimes, though, a particular date marks an anniversary of a much different sort.

Dad's been gone for 39 years, now. It was a Saturday that year, too. On April 18th of next year, Dad will have been gone for as long as he was alive. Don't ask me why I ever bothered to figure that out, but it was somehow important for me to know.

Although long forgotten and merely another life and death statistic for most of the world; he remains much more than a statistic to me. 

He was Dad.

I've never really gotten over Dad's death. Although I only knew him for less then thirteen of his thirty-nine plus years; we had a special bond. Perhaps it was because I was the only son of an only son; the only one in the family that would hold on to the Brader name until I died. Perhaps it was because I was born on his birthday. Perhaps it was because we could find refuge with each other in a home otherwise filled with women. Perhaps it was just because we were father and son.

Mom always said that I have a lot of Dad in me. I'm regularly accused of being overly logical and analytical. Mom always made fun of the fact that I insist on having my shirts heavily starched, and I don't change out of my "work clothes" when I get home from work. She said it's just like Dad. 

Maybe so, but that's not what I remember about Dad.

I remember him getting me out of bed at 4:00 in the morning so we could be on the ice for hockey practice by 5.

I remember him buying a couple of extra donuts at the Donut Shop on the way home from practice so we could eat them before we got home "so Mom wouldn't know."

I remember him letting me sit on his lap and drive his 1964 Chevy Nova home from Nana and Papa's house. He operated the pedals and gearshift whileI steered and operated the turn signal.

I remember him taking me fishing at The Lodge.

I remember him teaching me how to manually calculate square roots in the margin of the newspaper.

I remember him playing catch with me on the sidewalk in front of the house on Mardel. 

Mostly, though, I just remember that he left us too soon.

Thirty-nine years has not erased the pain of losing him. Somehow I think that even if I should live another thirty-nine years I'll still be missing Dad.