ForeverMissed
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Three Years Gone - Three Years Missed

December 15, 2023
Hey Pops,
I know it's been a while, and I apologize for falling down on the job here maintaining this space. I have been busy, which I know you understand too well. It's been three years today since you had to go. The days between have gotten a little easier, but your memory endures. I think about you every day. And too many days I find myself wanting to pick up the phone to call you and share the day's happenings or a funny story (usually one that is funny at my expense - but we both were fond of putting ourselves in innocent, compromising situations for a laugh; I have photographic evidence, mind you). 

As I'm sure you're aware, because she better be there right beside you, Mom passed away only a few months ago. Your daughter did an amazing job caring for her. She doubts this in herself, too often. I think she would appreciate receiving your approval, however, you might be able to give it. I don't know what that would look like, but I'm sure she'd recognize it.

Thank you for everything, Dad. For nearly 79 years as a wonderful, devoted father. For being my friend. For being my hero. And for providing me with an example of strong character, selflessness, and thoughtfulness I continue to try to emulate. I know I fall short. I'm unfortunately hardwired a bit differently, but you knew that. You didn't quite understand it, but you did your best. That's more than many fathers would have done.

Thank you to you and Mom for all you've given Sis and me over the years and continue to give even though you are no longer here. I don't deserve the generosity. I have taken far more than I have given, which shames me. Nevertheless, I am grateful to you both for your love and faith in me to do better. I'm trying. I truly am. And though each day comes with its own set of challenges, be they external or internal, I manage somehow to scrape through. No one will know the depths of my pain; I keep a lot of it as well hidden as possible. I imagine you can see it now and understand better how much I am a prisoner of my own mind. I miss who I used to be so long ago when there was seemingly nothing I could not accomplish. I know you were proud of me then. I struggle to believe you were proud of me when you passed. But I think I might have begun to earn back that pride in these intervening years.

So, three years. I still remember the day like it was yesterday. I am still grieved by not being able to say goodbye to you in person. But if I'm being honest with myself, I would not have been able to endure seeing you in the amount of pain you were in, that even through the morphine brought you to tears. To this day, I still wish I could have taken on that pain and taken it from you, the same way you always tried to unburden me of my fears and perceived failures. You taught me a lot about how to be a man. For a good part, I wish I had listened better. These days, I'm trying to be better. In case you're watching. And if you are looking down, please make note of that as well as the fact that I still have, mostly, a full head of hair.

I love you, Dad. I always will. I know Jamie is thinking about you right now. We're both feel so bittersweet that you and Mom have been reunited. I can't speak for Jamie, but I still feel a little lost without your guidance. But I'm finding my own means to light the path forward. I will always look behind with longing and regret. It did take until the very day you passed for me to finally become a man. I'd always been just a boy playing at being grown up - too scared to trust myself. However, like I said, I'm trying to do better and be better, and I couldn't have asked for a better role model.

I'll try to be better about writing. I love and miss you, Old Man. I will love and miss you until forever's last day.

One Year Gone

December 15, 2021
Dad,
Today, it's been one year since we had to let you go. Though you are no longer in pain, and we are so grateful for that, our hearts still ache in the wake of your absence. You were gone too soon, and none of us were prepared to say goodbye (as if anyone really ever is). But we endure. You'd be proud of your daughter, who works tirelessly to care for Mom and ensure she is comfortable - just as you did. You guys raised that kid right (we'll overlook the early fits in starts; just kidding you sister). That girl is strong, but I hope she understands the weight of the world does not rest on her shoulders. I hope she takes time for herself and finds the quiet moments to cherish your memory and attend to her own grief. Mom remains resilient. She misses you like only someone who has spent nearly 52 years with another can. She carries on as best she can. Know, Dad, she is loved and taken care of, as was your final wish. As for me, I'm not sure a day goes by that I don't think of you, that I don't reach for the phone to share with you something funny (at least to me) or something infuriating (again, at least to me). I think you would be happy with where I have landed after having to do some serious course correcting. I'm often told that I should rest easy and know that you were proud of me. I have always struggled with that - even when you were here. Sometimes, I felt like such a disappointment. But, now, I think I can believe I'm in a place that would make you proud. You have been, and will always be my hero (Sister, The Wife, and Mom each running close second - sorry dear). I miss you every day. I don't expect the days ahead to get any easier without you. But with time comes acceptance, and I can live with that. Though you are no longer present in body, I know there are still so many hearts keeping your memory alive. Mine pounds loud in the fore. I hope you can hear it. I love you, Old Man.
Forever Your Son,
Rich (aka The Firstborn)  

Father's Day

June 20, 2021
Happy Father's Day, Dad. This is the first one without you. Another first of many first's to come that you won't be here to share with me, with us. I have to have faith, though, that you won't be far.

Today, we celebrate the father you were...the father you will always be.

Love you, old man!
Rich

With You - A Poem

June 20, 2021
Since those earnest vows voiced years ago,
The golden band placed upon your youthful finger,
And forever since our first kiss
Shared as husband and wife,
I have been with you.

Since holding you in my arms,
Nurturing you toward the unique lives
You will eventually lead, with deepest pride,
I have been with you.

I ask, if grieve you must,
Grieve only the absence of my body.
Rather, celebrate the constant soul that carries on.
Mourn not the husband and father whose soft words,
Whose spirited laughter sounds
No longer throughout this humble home.
Despair not the loss of this friend and friendships
Shared over years as are shared the bonds of family.

Though heartache may be born from our separation,
Measured in immeasurable gulfs of space and time,
Know I am merely beyond a thin, transparent veil,
And I walk there, treading with you the self-same path,
The winding open road
Upon which we began our journey entwined so long ago.

Go and take in life to its fullest.
Do not look back, for you will not find me there.
My memory, your remembrance of me,
Follows you and will forever be with you.

Hear and follow my voice, my song
Sung with angels on high. Hear my enduring
Expressions of love eternal.
For this is the way set alight with ethereal brilliance.

This is the shimmering beacon,
A resounding hymn sung for you  
To follow, that will guide you
To where I will welcome you home,
To where our spirits, our souls,
May embrace once again in unending love.
To where I am with you again.

― Richard K. Seward

Dad - A Son's Remembrance

June 20, 2021
Hello,

I want to thank you all for being here today. We’ve all had to sacrifice so much in the past year or so for the sake of safety, and though we are still not quite at that light at the end of the tunnel (but we’re getting closer), I/we recognize and sincerely appreciate all of you coming out to share and support us on such a bittersweet occasion.

Some of you may know me. Some may not. My name is Rich Seward, I am the son of the man for whom we’ve gathered here today to celebrate. I wanted to arrive here with a fully peer-reviewed monograph, complete with cited sources, annotated bibliography, and interactive PowerPoint to help highlight the man I knew my father to be. Unfortunately, when that monograph reached 75000 words and I had yet to begin even discussing our lives in the 80s, I decided I needed to abandon the endeavor. Dad wasn’t the first to accuse me of being unnecessarily verbose.

I really, really wanted to speak about my father without the crutch of a prepared speech. But I didn’t trust myself to have the right words at the ready when I needed them. As some may know, words matter to me and I wanted to ensure I chose the precise words here to honor my father.

Richard Harley Seward. Husband, father, son, uncle, nephew, friend. As he wore many hats throughout his life, you might have known him as one or more of these. We are here today in fellowship because of the sadness we feel for his loss. Yet, we also wish to celebrate the very special man he was. Some may have known him as Richard. Some as Dik. Maybe others as “hey you, old man.” But to me and my sister, at least, he will always be dad. To mom, he will always be “my husband.” However, if I’m being honest, for me anyway, he was still sometimes “hey you, old man.”

My dad was one of, if not the, most selfless individuals I have ever known. He was a genuine man. A classic gentleman - a specimen becoming far too rare among today’s boys and men. He was sincere in the kindness he showed to others. His selflessness was not motivated by anything other than what it was - the true wish to put others before himself. My father was devoted to his family. Even in the end, his primary concerns were for us and our continued well-being. Not for himself.

My father had the strictest of work ethics and he brought that ethic home with him. I remember him once telling me that he did all that he did around the house so that we didn’t have to. Of course, that may also have been his way of saying he wanted it done right because those of us in the know remember he could be very exacting when it came to tasks he wanted or needed to be done. Just saying. More likely than not, however, is the fact that that was simply who he was - and some of that need for exactness, that example he set, has spilled over to both my sister and me. It has helped us get to where we are today and to become the people we are. We are wholly indebted to him for the unselfish love and support he provided throughout our youth and into our adulthood.

When he passed, one of the most persistent struggles I had was whether he was proud of me. Did I become the man he had hoped I would become? After all, he was my hero. When I finally realized this later in life (it took some time to get there - I mean, as a growing boy, I, like so many other kids my age, looked to film and television for my heroes; it’s the reason I grew up with a bullwhip, after much nagging and negotiating - thankfully, though, not once did mom or dad ever chide me with the equivalent of “you’ll shoot your eye out”), but when I finally saw my father as more than just a provider, an authority figure, someone who had to love me because it was his job by golly, when I really got to know him, that was when I discovered how much I hoped and strived to emulate those self-same qualities that made him the great man I saw in him. I know I fell short in some areas and maybe even exceeded him in others. Even now, still struggling with that question of pride, I have realized that I have to trust in the signs and affections, in the words and actions, that dad left me with. And I know, moving forward, I will look to him as my North Star throughout the remainder of my life’s journey, always seeking to do the things and to be the person I believe would have made him most proud both in this life and the next.

When we grieve a loss, we need to recognize that doing so tells us something. Life is a collection of dualities - happiness vs. sadness, like vs. dislike, life vs. death. Grief requires that we have something to grieve. Without sadness, we would never be able to recognize happiness for what it is. Without death, life would lose its meaning, its very imperative. It would no longer be something to be treasured. It might seem counterintuitive, but we all should be so lucky to be able to grieve, as doing so is proof to us that the one for whom we grieve was without a doubt worthy of that grief. Loss and grief show us the truth and strength of love.

I never had the chance to know my father as well as I would have liked. There are parts of his life that remain a mystery to me. I know he was a bit of a wild child in his youth (I still smile when I think about that, especially since it doesn’t really mesh with the man I knew, at least not entirely). Yet, I can sort of imagine him like that as I remember the little mischiefs he liked to visit on those he loved. Many of my friends (and I’m sure some of my sister’s boyfriends) admitted to being somewhat intimidated upon first meeting him - maybe even after subsequent meetings and years later. He just had this natural disposition, a rock-hard countenance. Yet this was ultimately belied by a playful spirit that lived beneath the intense facade. To know him, though, was to see beyond that rough exterior, to see the generous and playful heart underneath. Some simply had to work harder to earn it - again, mostly my sister’s boyfriends.

Both my father and his younger brother volunteered to serve during Vietnam. I know a little about his stay in Germany before being sent in-country. I’ve been honored to read some of the letters he wrote home to his mom and dad. The war wasn’t something he talked about, though. I asked maybe once or twice before realizing that it was his secret to keep. But I’m proud of that service and the continued patriotism he showed for the country he fought for. I’m pretty sure he started the tradition observed by some neighbors of flying high the Stars and Stripes (always according to appropriate flag protocols). He loved and invested his trust and pride of service in this great nation until the end.

I might risk asserting that he valued family before country - though not by much. I remember when he worked as a security guard at Jack Murphy Stadium. I have memories of him going to work the night shift as mom got home from her swing shift at the phone company. He came home around 6 am. After some shuteye, he hit the books, as it were. He studied and ultimately earned a Master’s Degree in Music with an emphasis on voice. Before I was born, he was part of the chorus for the San Diego Opera. Singing was where laid his true professional passion. He had every chance of becoming ever more involved with the Opera, but he felt having a newborn son would take him away for too long from this new family. He sacrificed that dream for the dreams of and for his family. He would go on to study electronics to obtain a job that would enable him to provide for and support that family.

In time, three became four with the addition of my younger sister, Jamie. It’s not an understatement to say my sister and I did not really get along for a large part of our shared childhood. As hopefully many things do, that would change with the arrival of maturity.

Unlike other fathers, mine did not really have his golf buddies, his poker nights, his drinking companions. He had the choirs of which he was a part for more than 40 years and all the many choir members with whom he shared a love for singing. My strongest memories are of him working and being home with his family. His constant companion was my mother. They did so much together and with son and daughter in tow. We were, without doubt, his true north, the very center of his universe. I don’t believe he had many friends in that more traditional sense. Perhaps, where other men might have acknowledged others as close friends with whom they gathered for shared companionship, I think my father regarded those people he drew into his orbit as family, extended but family all the same. If you’re here today, you can count yourself among that extended family. There simply wasn’t a lot of gray in the way he experienced the world and people. He saw things in black and white to a great degree. If you were his friend, you became more than a friend. You became part of his family.

This next part harkens back to my comment about precision with words and language. While living at home, I worked with the phone company for a time. I worked split shifts, which required me to be at work often by 6:45am. Now, even with my alarm clock across the bedroom so that I had to actually drag myself out of bed to turn it off (or more often snooze it repeatedly), I was not the best about getting up promptly. Eventually, I would ask him to make sure I was awake at such and such a time. He would comply with my request. I don’t know when precisely this dynamic shifted, but one evening I asked him to make sure I was up at a particular time. He acknowledged my request. The next morning, at that agreed upon time, I was not out of bed; not until a bucket of ice rained down on me. Then I was up and out like I had just been plunged into frigid arctic waters. Another instance had me being forcibly dragged by my leg out of bed. Or discovering the dog standing on my chest. So, it came to pass, eventually, that in making my usual request before retiring to bed the night before, we had to settle on, “Do you want me to wake you up or get you up?” I became very careful about how I phrased things moving forward.

I have been a writer since I was in the third grade. My dad was the one person I could always count on to bounce ideas off of and talk through story ideas. He wasn’t much of a reader, but he did have the critical sense to guide me in the direction I needed to go. He was someone I could go to for advice or an honest opinion when needed. To this day, though, I’m not quite sure how to interpret an answer he gave to a particular advice issue I raised. I noted to him that he never did tell me about the birds and the bees. His quick reply, not even blinking an eye, was, “I never figured I’d need to.”

It was with my father I got to experience many firsts that became hallmarks of my childhood, particularly as my enjoyment of film was concerned. There was Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, Superman, Superman II, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Star Trek II, Blade Runner, Blue Thunder, to name a few, all seen in their first runs in those old-time movie palaces that no longer exist, monuments of bygone days. One afternoon, when we were repainting the dining room for my mom, who happened to be out of town at the time, he took me to a movie of my choice as a treat for helping him complete the work. I wanted to see Scarface with Al Pacino. Neither of us were exactly prepared for that experience. Not at all. After that, I believe he became a bit more selective about what he would take me to see. If you have seen it, you’ll understand. If not, we can talk later about the film’s expansive vocabulary.

There are just so many fond and indelible memories that continue to surface everyday. During the Fouts era (and when they were still in San Diego), watching Sunday afternoon Charger games and then going out to toss a football during halftime; every single little league baseball game I played that both he and my mother attended; my first Padres game (against the Reds, I believe) where a foul ball flew just beyond his reach; family road trips over the hills and through the woods to the grandparents’ houses; our helicopter trip at Mt. Rushmore with a pilot of questionable sanity who flew us straight at George Washington’s nose, banking away hard with what seemed like only a scant few feet to spare; digging out the embankment in the backyard and then sinking fence posts and erecting a retaining wall; learning to drive; falling down on my bike and slicing open my chin and then being raced to the hospital for stitches, and learning he fainted as he watched the doctors put me back together because it pained him to see me in pain; when younger and lighter, carrying me to bed when I fell asleep watching tv in the living room; later calling him or texting him in Santee from my home in Colorado to ask if he would come carry me to bed because I was too tired to climb the stairs and receiving some snide comment or other in answer; Sunday nights at Sunset Cliffs with him, mom, and Jamie in the back of his truck to listen to the waves; every Saturday at Venice Pizza for dinner; in my later life sharing a love of classical music and talking about beloved composers and works (Maurice Ravel’s Bolero not among his even slightly beloved works - he hated that piece. Hated it); and having breakfast with him on the morning of my wedding.

I could not be with him when he passed. My goodbyes were said over the phone. I told him then it was ok, he had done enough, he could rest, he didn’t have to wait for me. He was gone the next afternoon. He was at peace.

I wanted to give this eulogy because it is the least I could have done for my father and putting words together happens to be my particular gift. The words spoken here today will never be the right words, though. They cannot and will not ever adequately capture how much my dad meant to me. I was not the perfect son, but my love for him has been and always will be genuine...and perfect.

Dad and Choir - A Memory

April 12, 2021
One of the earliest memories of my father is accompanying him on Thursday nights as he attended choir rehearsal at (I think it was called then) East San Diego Presbyterian Church. It was a beautiful A-frame church at the top of a hill that overlooked a good portion of South San Diego. I don't remember how old I was (5 or 6?) or for how long I went on accompanying him, but while he rehearsed with the choir upstairs in the choir loft, I remained in the cloakroom/preparation area in the back. There I played with whatever toys were available (or with those I brought myself) while listening to the full choir sing to the accompaniment of the organist and choir director, Ellis Dugger. While I wasn't as attentive as I would be in later years, I am pretty sure I could hear my father's tenor voice above the rest. Of course, I took for granted that time I got to spend with Dad. Even though I was in the back room and he was out front with his fellow choristers, it was a part of his life I got to experience, and though I did not appreciate it then, I certainly do now. I also recognize its significance. I'm 49 now. Before the pandemic struck, he still actively attended weekly rehearsals and services and sang in the various concerts presented by the church. How fortunate was I (am I) to have been a part of something he loved doing for more than 40 years, if only briefly? Still, there were all of the Christmas concerts and Christmas eve services where I heard him sing. And yes, I could always pick out his voice from the rest. And how blessed I am to hear it still, if only as a memory. I love you, Old Man. You made me so proud.
April 1, 2021
i loved when dick and marilyn came home to visit us knowing how much they loved us like we loved them. gonna miss dick with marilyn. love you all hugs and love always caci

family of dick

April 1, 2021
i remember when he sang blessed assurance at kenneys funeral loved his voice it was so powerful i was in awe of his voice and talent he was such a nice guy dick was so nice always enjoyed talking to him on phone when i would call him and marilyn they are both so nice. dick is gonna be so missed i minute dad bought kenneys house from them my first place and i loved it and the memories there i have of kenney he was so nice to i loved that the walker family got to take care of him for you all would do it again if he was still here

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