An Ode to Dad

On steadiness, Saturday nights, and the phone that no longer rings

“It’s your dear old Dad.”

The phone would ring once a week — back when I still had a landline — and there he was, same greeting every time. I was in my twenties, newly out of college and in my first apartment. Then in my thirties, owning my own home, advancing through my career. Then in my forties, married to Lee and settled into the life that, Dad made clear, elated him. Every time, without fail: “It’s your dear old Dad.”

I have always described my father as the bedrock of our family. He was, more than anything else, a rock. The one who waited up on Saturday nights until we were home safe. The one people called in a crisis — though he admitted it made him deeply uncomfortable. His steadiness and even temperament served him well as a defense historian working in the inner rings of the Pentagon. But it served us better.

He would have said his greatest achievement was his family. A marriage of 57 years. Two daughters who pursued their passions, built careers they loved, and married well.

Dad passed in 2013, at 92 — his body worn out, peaceful in his sleep. Mom followed eleven months later, also at 92. Even in her dementia, I think she was simply too lonely without him.

During the caregiving years for Lee, in the moments of isolation and fear and feeling lost, I often wished the phone would ring. His cheerful voice on the other end, offering me a minute or an hour, whatever I needed. Listening was his greatest gift to me. I didn’t fully know that until I needed it most and he was gone.

Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Vicki.