Anonymous Poster
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- Sep 27, 2005
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Today is my dads birthday, but he's not here to say happy birthday to. This is a story about his passing. It's your choice to read it or not, it is emotional. If you're not interested, better hit the back button...now.
Under the Concrete Guitar...
My dad and I never got along well. He never really knew who I was, even though I was twenty nine years old when he died. He was this big guy who came in at dark with dust on his boots, ate dinner silently, read the newspaper and doled out corporal punishment when the time came. I remember being small and passing him in the hallway. He was massive. At six foot four and a hundred and ninety pounds I gave him the better part of the hallway without having to be told. I pressed myself against the wall while he passed, as impressive as a Macys thanksgiving day parade float.
Even when I became an adult we never seemed to be able to get past that father/child relationship and progress on to person/person. I wish I had known him better as a person. Maybe I would have missed him more when he passed. Or so I thought.
I was three months pregnant with my son when I received the call that he had passed away. Even though he had a bad heart and we all knew that he was due for a 'tune up' (valve replacement) it still came as a shock. He went sitting in his favorite chair, his jaw resting on his fist, elbow on the arm of the chair, eyes trained on my mother who sat across the room in her own chair. We all agreed that his passing must have been peaceful and painless.
We made the trip to Georgia, my husband, my small daughter and I, not in time to be there for the funeral, but in time to visit with some of the family who had come from different parts of the country to pay respects. It was the first time all four of us kids had been together in several years, so we sat around the kitchen table in my grandmother's house swapping stories about dad and other childhood memories. My father used to play the guitar. He and his friends would to get together for impromptu ‘jam sessions’ and fill the house with classic country music. We listened to one of his tapes.
"You'll be wanting to go to the cemetery, right?" My sisters both asked. I got the definite impression that they wondered how I was holding up so well, being that they had cried gallons since I had arrived in Georgia and I had not shed the first tear. I wondered about that myself.
"Of course." I replied. I wouldn’t have them thinking I didn’t care. Of course I cared. I didn’t know what I was thinking. How could I not care? This was my dad……..why wasn’t I crying?
"Good” they both said “you have to see what Larry did."
It was at that point that my sister handed me the little cloth and wire Christmas elf I had given my dad for Christmas twenty-seven years prior. The elf had adorned the rear view mirror of every single vehicle he drove from that day forward, Christmas time or not. Holding it in my hand I was immediately transported to the cab of his pickup, the big wide seat, the little wire rack that held his Stetson when it wasn’t on his head. The…smell of dad. I felt a sudden need to go sit in his truck, which was parked just outside, but I didn't want to leave the reminiscing.
My grandmother wandered through at about ten p.m. to remind us that a child should not go before his mother, that she was not prepared to lose a son, that it was not fair to have to bury him, he should have buried her, and we cried and hugged her and smiled with her before she made her way back to bed to continue to grieve.
The next morning dawned cold and rainy. I stepped out the door trying to prepare for the visit to the cemetery. I held back, not yet ready to go, not sure why. I had missed the ceremony, what was the point really?
"You have to go, you have to see what Larry did." My sisters kept insisting.
What Larry did. What did Larry do? No one would tell me.
The freshly turned red Georgia earth at the cemetery did nothing to make me feel any better. I knew that when we got back to Florida I would see red earth in the crevices of our shoes for weeks, weeks to be reminded of my trip to Georgia and why we went.
I was led past several tombstones, watching fervently for the one that displayed his name, not wanting it to sneak up on me, wanting to be prepared.
We turned a corner and my sisters both stopped. I was confused. I saw no headstone, only a white guitar molded in concrete, standing on it's broad base, wet from the rain. It wasn't until I saw the bronze plaque set in the body of the guitar, that I realized it displayed the name I had been seeking.
I don't know when I hit my knees exactly, don't really know when I started sobbing but sob I did, until I thought I would collapse from the agony. All I could think about was the cold rain pouring down, and him lying there in the damp ground, no one to touch him, or warm him. I wanted to dig into the red earth, to put my hands on his face that always had a bit of stubble, to pat his cheek one last time, but I knew it was foolish to think that way. I sobbed and I sobbed until I thought I couldn’t possibly shed another tear. My sisters both sighed in satisfaction as though this reaction from me was what they had been waiting for.
I finally discovered what my brother Larry had done. Creatively challenged and clumsy to the point of embarrassment, he had diligently fashioned this headstone himself, with his own two hands. It was as smooth as glass, a perfect replica of dad's six string Fender. He had the plaque made on his own and set it into the concrete, and delivered the tombstone and set it in place alone.
I didn’t realize it up until that point, but I had not accepted my father's death. I knew he had died. I knew that. But I had not accepted it. I did not accept it until I was there, at his final resting place, the place with his name on it that made it so crushingly final. I also realized that it was not that I didn’t love him, or didn’t miss him, but that I was still in shock. Subconsciously I had not let the fact that I would never see him again sink in until I sat at his feet once again in the cold rain, without the benefit of the feeling of his hand on my head.
Suddenly I could hear the words to the songs he sang me, the low rumble of his laughter, the thump of his heart on my cheek when he hugged me. I saw his smile that could really only be classified as a grin, the light in his eyes as he listened to me sing, the sharp lines of his nose and the high cheekbones that spoke to his Cherokee heritage.
I was left to my own tears, my sisters giving me time to get control of myself. I don't know how long I was there, I do know that when I finally got to my feet I was chilled to the bone and wet through and through. I studied the grave site a few minutes more, said my goodbyes and made my way back to the car, memorizing every detail of the cemetery, committing the name to memory, for I know that one day, when time and money permits I will return to visit my dad, where he lies in Georgia, in the red earth, under the concrete guitar.
Happy Birthday Dad, maybe I'll get there next year.
Under the Concrete Guitar...
My dad and I never got along well. He never really knew who I was, even though I was twenty nine years old when he died. He was this big guy who came in at dark with dust on his boots, ate dinner silently, read the newspaper and doled out corporal punishment when the time came. I remember being small and passing him in the hallway. He was massive. At six foot four and a hundred and ninety pounds I gave him the better part of the hallway without having to be told. I pressed myself against the wall while he passed, as impressive as a Macys thanksgiving day parade float.
Even when I became an adult we never seemed to be able to get past that father/child relationship and progress on to person/person. I wish I had known him better as a person. Maybe I would have missed him more when he passed. Or so I thought.
I was three months pregnant with my son when I received the call that he had passed away. Even though he had a bad heart and we all knew that he was due for a 'tune up' (valve replacement) it still came as a shock. He went sitting in his favorite chair, his jaw resting on his fist, elbow on the arm of the chair, eyes trained on my mother who sat across the room in her own chair. We all agreed that his passing must have been peaceful and painless.
We made the trip to Georgia, my husband, my small daughter and I, not in time to be there for the funeral, but in time to visit with some of the family who had come from different parts of the country to pay respects. It was the first time all four of us kids had been together in several years, so we sat around the kitchen table in my grandmother's house swapping stories about dad and other childhood memories. My father used to play the guitar. He and his friends would to get together for impromptu ‘jam sessions’ and fill the house with classic country music. We listened to one of his tapes.
"You'll be wanting to go to the cemetery, right?" My sisters both asked. I got the definite impression that they wondered how I was holding up so well, being that they had cried gallons since I had arrived in Georgia and I had not shed the first tear. I wondered about that myself.
"Of course." I replied. I wouldn’t have them thinking I didn’t care. Of course I cared. I didn’t know what I was thinking. How could I not care? This was my dad……..why wasn’t I crying?
"Good” they both said “you have to see what Larry did."
It was at that point that my sister handed me the little cloth and wire Christmas elf I had given my dad for Christmas twenty-seven years prior. The elf had adorned the rear view mirror of every single vehicle he drove from that day forward, Christmas time or not. Holding it in my hand I was immediately transported to the cab of his pickup, the big wide seat, the little wire rack that held his Stetson when it wasn’t on his head. The…smell of dad. I felt a sudden need to go sit in his truck, which was parked just outside, but I didn't want to leave the reminiscing.
My grandmother wandered through at about ten p.m. to remind us that a child should not go before his mother, that she was not prepared to lose a son, that it was not fair to have to bury him, he should have buried her, and we cried and hugged her and smiled with her before she made her way back to bed to continue to grieve.
The next morning dawned cold and rainy. I stepped out the door trying to prepare for the visit to the cemetery. I held back, not yet ready to go, not sure why. I had missed the ceremony, what was the point really?
"You have to go, you have to see what Larry did." My sisters kept insisting.
What Larry did. What did Larry do? No one would tell me.
The freshly turned red Georgia earth at the cemetery did nothing to make me feel any better. I knew that when we got back to Florida I would see red earth in the crevices of our shoes for weeks, weeks to be reminded of my trip to Georgia and why we went.
I was led past several tombstones, watching fervently for the one that displayed his name, not wanting it to sneak up on me, wanting to be prepared.
We turned a corner and my sisters both stopped. I was confused. I saw no headstone, only a white guitar molded in concrete, standing on it's broad base, wet from the rain. It wasn't until I saw the bronze plaque set in the body of the guitar, that I realized it displayed the name I had been seeking.
I don't know when I hit my knees exactly, don't really know when I started sobbing but sob I did, until I thought I would collapse from the agony. All I could think about was the cold rain pouring down, and him lying there in the damp ground, no one to touch him, or warm him. I wanted to dig into the red earth, to put my hands on his face that always had a bit of stubble, to pat his cheek one last time, but I knew it was foolish to think that way. I sobbed and I sobbed until I thought I couldn’t possibly shed another tear. My sisters both sighed in satisfaction as though this reaction from me was what they had been waiting for.
I finally discovered what my brother Larry had done. Creatively challenged and clumsy to the point of embarrassment, he had diligently fashioned this headstone himself, with his own two hands. It was as smooth as glass, a perfect replica of dad's six string Fender. He had the plaque made on his own and set it into the concrete, and delivered the tombstone and set it in place alone.
I didn’t realize it up until that point, but I had not accepted my father's death. I knew he had died. I knew that. But I had not accepted it. I did not accept it until I was there, at his final resting place, the place with his name on it that made it so crushingly final. I also realized that it was not that I didn’t love him, or didn’t miss him, but that I was still in shock. Subconsciously I had not let the fact that I would never see him again sink in until I sat at his feet once again in the cold rain, without the benefit of the feeling of his hand on my head.
Suddenly I could hear the words to the songs he sang me, the low rumble of his laughter, the thump of his heart on my cheek when he hugged me. I saw his smile that could really only be classified as a grin, the light in his eyes as he listened to me sing, the sharp lines of his nose and the high cheekbones that spoke to his Cherokee heritage.
I was left to my own tears, my sisters giving me time to get control of myself. I don't know how long I was there, I do know that when I finally got to my feet I was chilled to the bone and wet through and through. I studied the grave site a few minutes more, said my goodbyes and made my way back to the car, memorizing every detail of the cemetery, committing the name to memory, for I know that one day, when time and money permits I will return to visit my dad, where he lies in Georgia, in the red earth, under the concrete guitar.
Happy Birthday Dad, maybe I'll get there next year.
