Dear Dad,

I remember your keen sense of humor. You made me laugh like a child, even as a grown man. Few have ever made me laugh as hard as you could. Your timing was well honed, your eyes atwinkle, that recognizable grin. It was a set up you could see coming from across the table, but I loved it none the less. We knew where you were heading--a tall tale turned humorous, even silly--and we enjoyed the journey. The payoff, a laugh or a groan.

On this night, and many others, I miss your sense of humor, dad. I miss you.

My husband's father, Ed Smith, died two days ago at the age of 99. My own father, Rick Van Rheenen, would have turned 86 today.

A memory came to me this morning, as I was sipping my coffee….
My father and I are clomping along a wooden boardwalk over the southern reaches of San Francisco Bay. We're somewhere near Redwood City; I can’t remember the name of the place. No one else is around, just birds circling and diving for fish. He must have been in his early seventies, with the beginnings of Alzheimer’s, because I already had the sense of time being short. I wanted to spend easy-going, loving time with him but I also had so many questions that I hadn’t thought to ask earlier.

I was picking his brain about when he took the family to Nigeria in the sixties as part of the Peace Corps. And he said, almost incidentally, “Actually, I wasn’t in the Peace Corps, strictly speaking. I was a Public Health Service doctor, assigned to look after the Peace Corps volunteers.” 

That correction may not seem like much, but it blew my mind that it had taken me so long to learn the specifics of his (and our) time in Nigeria. I researched the Public Health Service and what I found made me wonder if volunteering for the Public Health Service meant my father didn’t have to go to Vietnam.

It also made me wonder what else I was assuming I knew about my dad but really didn’t. Dad, I’m glad I got to know you as a person and not just a father, but I wish we’d had more time. I think we might have gotten to a better place in our relationship. I have been watching as my husband's relationship with his dad (who just passed) became more and more loving as time went on. I would have liked that with my father, too, to learn more from the smart, interesting, well-traveled man who also happened to be my father. I miss you, dad.

Dear Dad,

We had a lot of good times together, a lot of hearty laughs in concert.
So many trips around the world and through our backyards.
We miss you today on your passing. We miss you every day.
We toast you on this fine northern Californian evening! 

Lots of love, Derek, aka Deko

Following my sister's lead, I reflect on another story of our father and driving, together. But in this story he is driving the car while spinning yarns, stories he perhaps learned from his own father in Sioux City, Iowa, where my dad was born and raised.

He drove his kids home to Woodside, California, where they now lived. The gallbladder green Mercury Montego with fake wood paneling wound up King's Mountain Road, veering left onto Entrance Way and on up the hill to Summit Springs Road. He had begun the tale miles earlier:

There once was a man from Nantucket
and a hermit named Dave
These were limericks we learned,
saucy and pretty exciting stories for a young lad

A far cry from nursery rhymes. No
this wasn't about Jack and Jill heading up a hill.
to fetch fresh water in a pail or bucket.

Our father told us stories about a woman from Dallas
and another from La Greaver.
The latter had apparently had an affair with a beaver.

This tale he claimed to have made up,
which just might be true.
Have you ever heard of a place
called La Greaver?

I think he told us these stories so
that we would remember him
until we saw him anew.

He left us laughing.

What my father taught me:

  --Ease up on the clutch, press down gently on the gas.
  --Don’t force it into gear. You’ll know when you find the sweet spot.
  --On El Camino in Menlo Park, drive in the middle lane. Cars in the outer lanes might be slowing down to turn.
  --Don’t break into the curves; accelerate out of them. (Sorry, dad: this doesn't always work, especially if you're going really fast or it's a hairpin turn.)
  -- Assume other drivers are oblivious assholes. If that turns out not to be the case, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Automotivese was one of my father's love languages. Born in Iowa in 1937, he could instantly recognize a car's make and model by a glance at its silhouette or a listen to its engine.

When I was in college, he gave me a 1964 Chevy Nova, the color of a peeled potato, a big red bow tied to the door handle. He knew how cool and coveted that car was. I would soon learn, as I fended off lots of people asking if I’d be willing to sell.

When I left my trusty Toyota Tercel under a tarp in his driveway to go traveling, I came back to him having had the car detailed and having replaced the most beat-up of the front bucket seats.
 
He loved all of is cars, but perhaps loved the cherry-red VW convertible best of all.

When he could no longer drive, it was like he’d had to cut off a limb.

Dad, on what would have been your 85th birthday, I hope you’re speeding along in a convertible, wind wreaking havoc with your comb-over, huge grin on your face.

Six years since your passing Ricky, and the memories of you remain as strong and precious as ever. Thinking of you now with the wedding of Jessie & Evan coming up soon, and wishing you could be there with your charm wit and, of course, humor. I know you will be there in spirit for all to embrace. Thanks for all you brought to our lives and continue to bring. Never to be forgotten, and always loved.
Love ya,
Doug

As a kid, I can remember my father playing the piano in the quiet of the evening, the keys resonating mellow harmony, a spectrum of tonal color warming the home. My favorite of his repertoire was Body and Soul.

In memory of my dad today, I link to a beautiful duet of the song, performed by Tony Bennet and Amy Winehouse:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_OFMkCeP6ok

How full and fragile life can be. I enjoyed so many trips and so many laughs with my father. It is a blessing to remember, a blessing to remember him.

Derek

Hey Ricky. On so many occasions you enter into my thoughts, so many wonderful times, so many laughs, so many meaningful talks about life and family. I miss you my dear friend, but our friendship lives on and the memories remain glorious. Your friend forever, Doug❤️

Rick was a true and valued friend for 49 years. When I first arrived in California he generously took me under his wing and helped me get settled.  He is sorely missed. Fuller Torrey