There have been some requests to post what I wrote for my father's funeral. Some people are amazed that I wrote it the day before in one draft. I tell them, "If you want God to move, some times you need to get out of the way."
Years ago my family and I were out to dinner. I had overeaten, as I can sometimes do, and was waiting to show off a new word I learned. I wanted my Dad to hear how smart I was and that I too can use big words. Well when the waitress asked if we wanted anything else I dramatically said, “Oh no thank you, I feel completely incarcerated.” There was a pause and I realized I had used the wrong word. I meant to say I felt inebriated or satiated, but I had failed and my mother explained that they were returning me to prison after dinner. My Dad thought this moment was rich, and repeated it often.He possessed a penchant for psycholinguistics and dialect. His circumlocutions could glaze over the eyes of even the most astute audience. He is the reason my dictionary was dog-eared and the reason I received a scholarship for my writing.
I read everything I can and seem to know a little about a lot because of the books we shared. I read many many things way over my head. Too much science fiction, but pressed in to show my Dad I was just as smart. His writings and drawings were a constant fascination for me. The secrets in his dresser that I often scavenged. I would copy his drawings in my hand and became an artist in my own right. His hippie music and complete lack of timely fashion. i.e. , his corded bell-bottoms and wool lama vest from Peru, are the reason for my lack of conformity. He’s the reason I’m competitive and take every challenge very seriously. If you were going to play Risk or Monopoly with Dad you better learn how to suck it up. If he lost, it was always with humble praise to his opponent and queries into how this could have happened.
My Dad was a big kid. His childlike goofiness was his best and most challenging trait. It was the reason people hung around and some times the bane of my mother’s existence. He was a little crazy. He had this green Gremlin with a sunroof. I would hang out the top on a summer night with the music blaring and bugs hitting my teeth. When the cops pulled us over, we’d stop and Dad would nod in agreement that this was not safe. But just long enough for the cops to leave. He always went too fast and thought nothing of going airborne in our big Checker Cab so that my head would hit the roof and Faith and Matthew would tumble around like dice. My mother was not happy…but we were. He would usually do this on our way home from church…a service he had slept through. He took the three of us sledding and I thought I would die every time. He taught us all how to shoot a gun and blow something up. He was a risk taker, but I have some crazy memories well worth it, I have a book of memories begging to be written.
Vacations were a blast. Holidays were fun. Yard work was an adventure. I loved showing him how hard I could work. I would get filthy to please him. I knew more about cars, engineering, stone walls and guns than anyone I knew. This thrilled me. I learned how to ride a bike, drive a car, swim, ice skate, steer a toboggan, throw a freesbie, catch a baseball, row a canoe, change my oil, wax a car, paint a fence, rake a lawn, shovel snow, chop wood, build a fire, pull the heads off mosquitoes after letting them bite you, camping….so much…all the reasons I know the manly things I know. All the reasons I’m comfortable and confident in my own capabilities.
I bragged about how hard my Dad worked. He would build anything we needed and did anything we asked. He worked harder than anybody. I was proud of his dirty hands and the way he smelled of grease and sweat. I thought it amazing the lack of sleep he went on. He often worked two jobs and I was always having to drag him out of bed and make his lunch. People thing I’m always late because I developed this habit from my Mother-yeah, well Dad went to work many times still brushing his teeth. He worked too hard and slept too little. I would find him asleep on the floor, on the couch, in his car, in the basement…on the toilet .He would work all night and still work on our cars. I knew there was not a car he couldn’t fix and marveled at how he could smoke a butt while doing it, his eyes squinting as the smoke float around him, hands busy. If you snuck into the basement to bring him food you’d better be ready to listen to his commentary and feign interest. I felt guilty if I left him there. I bragged one time to a friend that he was a Master Mechanic. He embarrassed me making it quite clear he was not and that he had not gone that far in his education. I was confused by his humility. As far as I was concerned he could fix ANYTHING and EVERYTHING. And he usually did.
I found the one thing my Dad couldn’t do. Anything to do with blood or the medical profession. For every pet we had it was always something. It was my job to deal with injuries and death. I relished telling him details as he got paler and told me the backs of his knees were starting to hurt, but he was so boyishly sensitive to these tragedies that I became soft. He cried when he buried a family pet. He sobbed deeply at my Nana’s death and the death of friends. He would get this look on his face like he knew something you did not understand. He would make something for us kids, leave notes, or save something obscure for deep purpose. He was deeply sensitive and sentimental. Some times I felt he bordered on cornball. We were always rolling our eyes. When he was working at Foss Manufacturing he came home with pressed lint from the machines because the pieces would look like faces or some 60’s acid trip. He was a collector of collections. His pack ratness was unprecedented and a major source of contention. But damn if he did have just what you needed when you needed it.
My Dad’s humor will never be seen again. His humor was like a 1o year old. His jokes we so lame. His humor so potty. His references so predictable. His phrases so known. He was a caricature of himself. He could say things you knew no one was gonna say and thought it hysterical to fart in a crowd and walk away to witness the after math. This was not Dad behavior. We all rolled our eyes and said things like “Dad, you’re so queer”, or Matt would shake his head and laugh as he looked away. My sister put up with it all, but her comedic tolerance was limited. My mother’s, “Oh Dan” or Oh Dan be careful”, were constant. I had just emceed an event and performed some stand up and improv when someone mentioned aloud, “What goes on in her head?” I felt like that about Dad, but maybe didn’t want to know.
I remember the way he was with Faith and Matthew when they were young. He was always kissing them, eating their cheeks, tickling or cuddling them. Crawling in their crib all dirty from work. Faith was so fair, her hair so wispy and her lips so bee stung. He ate her up. She was his “Downey Duck”. Matt was so plump and giggly he ate him up too. He was his “Matt Gooey Louie”. They knew how to listen and learn and have fun. He showed them EVERYTHING like he did me. He loved them deeply and I remember his face when he was loving them the most.
My Dad’s love could be misguided. His intentions clouded. He was easily misled due to his inability to see the bad in people. My Dad made mistakes. The older I became and had a husband and children of my own, his weaknesses and faults were more easily seen than when I was a child. Our conversations frustrated him. My intellect irritating. My reasoning unfounded. I became a challenge for him. My deep growing spirituality self-righteous. He was deep and I was deep and our deepness collided. But in these last years he was still teaching me, but he didn’t know it. He taught me to not judge people. He accepted anyone. He taught me deeper grace and mercy. I learned acceptance and a lot about the human condition. I learned forgiveness is an act of the will as much as love. We are all tested and fall short of the glory of God. I learned sin is sin and that Salvation can never be taken from you. Jesus loves my Dad. My Dad believed who Jesus said He was. I saw my Dad weep many times in the Lord’s presence. It gives me great relief to know He is with Him now.
I was four when Dan came into my life. Not everyone wants a woman who already has a child. I refused to call him my stepfather. It cheapened who he was. He was my provider, my teacher, my disciplinarian, my example and a patient listener. He was a constant and never left me. The memories I keep are good ones. I love him deeply. Painfully deep. Daniel Weitemeyer was and always will be my father.
