(Note: the one year anniversary of Dad's passing on May 4th came and went without me posting something on this website. My thanks to Jane and Cathy for your rememberances. But I have been thinking of Dad so much, and intending to share some of those thoughts. Please excuse my long-windedness, or seeming tangents, but what started out as a simple story about a memorial turned into something much more: a study and appreciation of who Dad was and how he lived his life. I hope you enjoy these memories and insights---Kira).
As time passes, there are some places and people that stay connected to Dad in my mind. One of these is Samuels Public Library in town.
Dad used the library a lot for tutoring sessions. Oftentimes, I'd drive by to drop off a book, and see an old white Subaru Impreza parked in the same corner spot, and know that Dad was at the library. Sometimes I'd go in, walk by the meeting room where he and a student were working, and wave. In those early days of my driving myself, there was something novel and comforting in crossing paths while out and about---me on my own as a young adult, but seeing him and knowing he was around if I needed him.
Now when I go to the library, even if I'm in a rush, I still am reminded of Dad, and can't help but wish to see that old Subaru parked out front.
Dad had a special way about him, when it came to interacting with people around town---you know, the ordinary characters: the bank teller, the fast food cashier, the neighbor at the grocery store. Dad possessed an old-school politeness that is rarely now seen. One of the words that so many people have used to describe him is "gentleman". Dad would acknowledge people, even if they were just the cashier at the counter. His greetings and farewells were real. And I've come to realize that so much of this was the rate at which he did things: errands were done leisurely, at "retiree" pace, as the rest of our family would joke. The very slowness with which he walked through the store or paid at the counter, frustating me, endeared people to him.
Our world is so fast, and attention or respect paid to others so fleeting. Dad, by being himself---an older, kind, gracious gentleman---made a difference in the lives of the "ordinary people" he came across.
Dad's approach to errands and the various people he'd meet on them was very "Andy Griffith"---that is, rooted in an appreciation of living in a small town. Dad liked to know people's names. He liked to notice and explore the small shops and restaurants unique to our town. He knew street names, and enjoyed taking back routes.
For all his ribs at "Helltown" (as Front Royal used to be known long ago) and its smokers and motorcycalists, I feel that Dad really did like Front Royal. He liked this small town tucked below the Skyline Drive. He appreciated the view of the mountains as you drive into town, their peaks deep blue, grey, or blazing with fall color. He enjoyed knowing that he was driving by old memories, parts of our lives: the Montessori school Cielle and I attended in our early years, the health food store where I work, the high school where we had our first recital, the car shop which kept his Subaru running...all these things make up a larger story, a world, a reality. It's one that Dad both grasped and appreciated.
Dad never traveled the world, but he knew the world. By spending time on the country roads, or living in other small towns, Dad developed an understanding of people, cultures, and our country. My enjoyment of taking my own country drives, of getting to know the little details and quircks of our town, of knowing people by name and face---all this comes from Dad.
And this brings us back to the library. Dad's understanding and apprecation of small town life and its people is best represented in the library.
He came to know the librarians by name as he reserved meeting rooms and held tutoring sessions. He would walk in, in his uniform of khaki pant and button down shirt, his black "tutoring bag" on one shoulder. And he'd smile and say hello, and they would do the same, all happy in this knowlege of each other and routine. He was "Mr. Tomlin", and many a time, they'd smile and mention " I saw your Dad here earlier" as I checked out my books.
But now, there is no Mr. Tomlin visiting the library. But there's me, and my mom and sister. And there are the same librarians: Melissa, Cathy, Betty, and so many others. All friendly people and good people, with a community mindset like to Dad's.
They were some of the first "outsiders" I told of Dad's death, when I went in to cancel his library card. And their responses spoke of a thanfullness for the very traits of Dad I wrote of earlier: a true friendliness, a gracious acknowledgement of people, a slowness and steadiness in his movements and words.
There are a lot of people who come into the library, and a lot of friendly people. But I feel that Dad was a particular friend, a face remembered, and, most importantly, not forgotten.
And that is why I chose to "Buy a Brick" for Dad. Following the death of a loved one, there is a desire to memorialize, to honor, your loved one in some lasting and concrete way. With the absence of a regular funeral (though we are looking to bury his ashes in a special spot), I was searching for something to fill this void. And that was when I heard of the library's fall brick campaign, in which you can buy a brick to adorn the library's walkway. Some people write something about books, others remember loved ones. I chose to remember Dad, and also offer a saying of hope and encouragement.
"Pray, Hope, and Don't Worry." This is the most well-known quote of the Catholic St. Padre Pio. A holy and intensely prayerful priest-monk of the Capuchin Franciscan order, Padre Pio lived at San Giovanni Rotundo in Italy in the mid-20th century. During his life, he was famous for his counsel in the confessional, and pilgrims would line up for days to have their confessions heard by this holy monk. He celebrated Masses with such devotion that they would often go on for three hourse. He is very much a saint for our times, having died only in 1968, and many answered prayers and miracles have been attributed to his intercession.
Our family has our own special relationship with Padre Pio. My mom was made aware of him by a friend, who gave us a very special holy card with a relic of Padre Pio. For years, we had this in our house, and I would often stop to look at it and pray. I feel without a doubt that Padre Pio brought me closer to God, and looked over my spiritual development. I remembering watching a movie on Padre Pio's life with the family, and us all being touched, amazed, and inspired by his life. After that, I feel like Dad really took an interest in him.
It was a spot of special connection for us, between my Catholicism and his own spirituality. Once Dad learned of the "Pray, Hope, and Don't Worry" quote, he would often mention it. And I felt he really understood what those words meant: not a carelessness or ignorant choice to "not worry", but a conscious and trust-filled choice to not give into anxiety.
Dad's brick is on the main circle in front of the library door, on the right hand corner. A prominent spot, and I hope that when passerby's eyes fall upon it, they see two things: a memorial to a much-loved man, and a peace-filled statement, reminding us to live---as he did, in his little, perhaps unnoticed way---in trust and hope.
