Tribute to my dad

Not too long ago I found myself calling my dad in a state of emotional upheaval about many unpleasant events in my life.  At the time he let me blab on and on, when I finally quit crying and took a long enough breath for him to say something, he simply said, "Ah honey, I'm sorry you are going through this."  As our conversation continued he asked, "What can I do for you?  Do you want me to help you problem solve, or do you just need me to listen? Because I can do either one."  That is how he was.

My dad knew when I needed to talk things through, he knew when to give advice, and he knew what questions to ask to help me figure things out.  I can honestly say that he literally saved my life this last year during the most difficult life challenges I've ever faced.  He talked me through some pretty dark moments and wasn't concerned about long painful silences while I tried to pull myself together.

He also laughed.  He knew how to make a joke, at just the right time, to break the sorrow and let light in.  Like in the movie, "Steel Magnolias", when the mom is grieving the loss of her daughter and she is ranting about how she is so angry and how she just wants to hit something, and her friend grabs the crabby friend of the group and shoves her in front of the mom and says, "Here, Hit Wheezer!  Go ahead, hit her."  And in the midst of the emotional angst they all laugh.  That was my dad...witty and insightful.  He knew what to say and when, and exactly how to deliver the line. 

I remember my dad being a concious disciplinarian.  He taught me so many valuable parenting tips.  He taught me to be deliberate in my parenting.  I remember once when I was about 17, I climbed out my bedroom window at about 2:00 in the morning, crawled across the garage roof, and shimmied down the pine tree to meet up with my friend.  I found my dad waiting for me at the base of the pine tree.  He asked where I was off to and then told me we were in for a long talk.  As I headed towards the front door, full of trepidation, he said, "No, you can go back in the way you got out."  So I climbed up the pine tree, crawled across the garage roof and back through my bedroom window.  He met me in my room, and said something to the effect of, "I'm so angry and disappointed right now that I am going to regret anything I might say, so we will talk in the morning."  I don't think I slept the rest of the night.

I remember duck hunting with him when I was a little girl, I admired the pretty feathers of the male ducks and pheasants.  I remember him teaching me how to ski when I was in 2nd grade.  I remember him laughing at me when as a young teenager I laid out on an old door in the middle of the winter to get a tan.  I remember him helping me clean the kitchen and telling me that for 10 minutes he would work as hard as I did.  I learned pretty quick that if I fiddled around for 10 minutes that when the timer went off I still had a mess to take care of by myself, but if I worked hard, that by the timer went off, I was done.  I remember waking up on Sunday mornings to beautiful classical music.  I remember him playing his guitar around the many campfires of my youth, the whole family singing "Hi, Ho, Anybody home?" 

I loved my dad dearly.  I am so sad he is gone.  He died on Thanksgiving morning, and it was totally unexpected.  I talked with him by phone frequently, and at the end of each conversation I would tell him that I loved him so much, that I was so glad he was my dad and that I appreciated his advice, words of wisdom, and loving support.  He would in turn tell me that he loved me so much.  That I was a joy in his life and that he was proud of me and felt priviledged to be my dad.  Our last conversation didn't end that way.  I was driving in the mountains and had warned him I might lose a connection.  We were talking about "Goose Poop Lake" (not the real name, I'm sure) and a small town in Oregon where we lived when I was just a baby.  We lost the connection before our conversation ended.  That's how I feel about his death, the connection was lost before our conversation ended.  I want so much to talk to him again, to tell him one more time how much I love and need him.  But he knows, and I know, and we will talk again. 

But in the meantime, I miss him.  I miss my dad. And I still love him dearly!

Dave Austin

May 27, 1938 - November 26, 2009