Usually, when I’m writing about my family, my mother and my
grandparents get all the prime real estate.
Obviously, they were the guiding forces in my life. My father wasn’t exactly present in my life
as a father figure, so Father’s Day was just another Sunday. That is not to say that I was without great
male role models. I had plenty. None better than my grandfather, of course,
but there were uncles, there were family friends and a whole lot of brothers
who were illustrations of what Men should and could be.
With their examples in mind, I found my way to a man who
became my partner in life and love, and a terrific father. He learned these talents from his own father
and I’m grateful to Ramon for raising the man he did.
By giving this praise to all of these other men, I don’t
mean to diminish the man my father was.
He did the best he could with the tools he was given to work with and
while he may have been largely absent, he was still a very good human being.
He was broken. He was
lost in a world that continued to let him down and he was saddled with the
weight of his own disappointment in himself.
It’s hard to walk tall when you don’t believe in yourself or when you
feel the need to carry the weight of shame rather than to to let it go and move
forward.
I’m not re-writing history here. He did a lot that was wrong. He allowed weaknesses to take over his life,
and he left a wife and kids with bruised hearts. But I perhaps had an advantage over my older
siblings in that I had no real memory of him as a regular household presence, so
there was no sense of loss.
To my mother’s credit, she never uttered a negative word
about him (in the presence of her children, anyway) and told us stories about
their time together that made him human.
More than an empty space. She
took him in during low points in his life.
She encouraged his sons to do the same.
She showed us that true love never dies.
It may not live in the same space, but it doesn’t disappear. As a child, it was obvious to me that there
was worth in that broken man. And good
or bad, that broken man was a part of me.
Over the years, I thought I should get to know him. So I did.
And he didn’t make it easy. I
wasn’t looking for a Dad. I was just
interested in knowing the man. The man
who loved my mother, the man who created my family, and the man who just walked
through life with the rest of us humans.
The more I learned about him, the more I learned about myself, about my
brothers and sisters, and even about my mother.
He may have been flawed and broken, but he really was a very good man.
He left this world that weighed him down shortly after I got
married. When I said goodbye to him in
the funeral home, I told him I’d look for him in my babies’ eyes. And darnit, if he isn’t there. I feel his presence and ask him for guidance
often. He’s finally ABLE to be there in
ways that he just couldn’t when bound by body and earth and expectations. And I see examples of him every day in things
I do, things I say, things my brothers do and say. In the Nature v/s Nurture argument, I think
Nature wins this one, because most of it couldn’t have been learned firsthand
from him.
So my father was flawed.
He was broken. He wasn’t going to
win any awards for the job he did. But
he was, first and foremost, a really decent human being. For that, I think he deserves a day.
I leave you with the eulogy I wrote for his memorial
service. Happy Father’s Day,
Vernell. Wherever you are.
Quiet Greatness
Over the last few days, there have been two words echoing
loudly in my head: Quiet Greatness. To me, Quiet Greatness is found in the kind
deeds done with no expectations. Lending
a hand when you can – not because you want credit or praise – but because it’s
the right thing to do. That’s how my
father, Vernell Albert, lived his life.
Some might say that he marched to the beat of his own
drummer. But I think that we all know
that Vernell wasn’t going to let a drummer – or anyone else for that matter –
tell him when and how to march. He was
stubborn. He was opinionated. And that’s a big part of why we loved
him. Political correctness was not going
to sway him from his principles and convictions. He lived his life by the Golden Rule, and he
expected nothing less from anyone else.
That, to me, is Quiet Greatness.
He was a man who truly understood the meaning of the word
“friendship”. Though he rarely – if ever
– said the words, I know that he loved each and every one of you. When I look around this room, I see
neighbors, co-workers, and fellow firefighters.
But most of all, I see a kind of extended family. I truly believe that he knew how blessed he
was to have all of you. He was a man of
few words, but I know that he did not take you for granted. If he didn’t say “thank you”, or that he
loved you, know that he did.
It’s very appropriate that we’re here in this firehouse
today, because this was the center of his universe. He was born to be a firefighter, and helping
his community fed his soul. He was so
proud to have been a part of all this.
My father’s life story was the stuff legends are made
of. I’ve never heard of anyone else in
the world that had been a Cowboy and a Mosquito Wrangler, a Millwright and a
Nightclub Bouncer, a Coal Miner and a Bingo Caller, a Military Man, a Taxi
Driver, and a Fire Chief – all in the span of one lifetime. And somewhere in the midst of it all, he
managed to create an amazing family and build friendships with some incredible
people.
I now think that all of that experience was just on-the-job
training for his next career move. He’s
just been promoted to Guardian Angel.
It’s a big job, but I know he can handle it. He’ll be looking down on us, making sure
we’re toeing the line. And when a call
for help goes out to his fancy new scanner, he’ll be there to put out the
fire. But there won’t be any more sirens
or flashing lights. There will only be
Quiet Greatness.
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