One Year

Today marks one year since my dad died.

It’s hard, writing that. A year is a long time, and very little, all at once. The hurt isn’t as fresh, but it’s still there. As the fall holidays approach, I still catch myself expecting to see him at Thanksgiving.

Or, well, having to think about how to fit in a third Thanksgiving – there’s mom’s family Thanksgiving, dad’s family Thanksgiving, and then dad would have his own Thanksgiving because he simply must be The Hostess With The Mostest, and after decades of trying to out-hostess my aunt in her own home, he combined that urge with his Grumpy Old Man urges and went for a Thanksgiving schism.

Grief is a hell of a thing.

I still miss him. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

The photo up above is from Lake Billy Chinook. Growing up, that was where we went every summer, our big trip. This year, my sister and cousin organized a big trip out there; family, his friends, our friends. Invite everyone along, make a big production of it; exactly how he used to do.

We took a boat out on the lake, found a spot to drift, and told stories. Made a game of it; go around the circle, and everyone has to tell three things: a good story, a bad story, and a ridiculous story.

At sunset, we scattered his ashes on the water.

And then we went back up to camp and stayed up late into the night, playing games, talking, laughing, and generally celebrating him the way he wanted us to. He would’ve loved it.

Here’s to you, dad. You loved your kids, you were an unmitigated asshole a lot of the time, and the closest thing you left to a will was just the remark that you wanted a party rather than a funeral.

Good, bad, and ridiculous.