Marlow's Musings 6/16/24

Father's Day Edition

Audio narration by David Marlow

Saguaro National Park, Arizona, on my last hike with my father. Copyright ©2015 David E. Marlow

There are moments in your life, you know, the ones where a bigger reality becomes clear. With Father's Day this weekend, I thought I'd share two of mine.

My oldest son Chris was young at the time, maybe three or four years old, and was enjoying some M&M's.

He'd carefully place them in his hand, shake them to center the candy in his palm, and then launch them into his mouth.

I said to my wife, "I wonder where he learned that from?"

💥 Laughing, she said, "You're kidding right? You've been doing that since I met you."

I'd never thought about it before, but I did do that, and my son learned it just by watching me.

He was watching me.

Everything I did, all the time. Even goofy things like centering M&M's in my hand. I was setting an example whether I realized it or not.

🌀 That memory and Harry Chapin's 'Cats in the Cradle' have had a surprisingly strong impact on me as a dad all these years.

🌱 When I think of my dad, something Clarence Kelland said comes to mind.

"My father didn't tell me how to live; he lived and let me watch him do it."

That was kind of my dad. I don't recall him ever buying a dog, but he had dogs. They'd show up, and he'd feed them, and they'd become his dog. And they were always marvelous dogs.

He had these trees in his front yard that he hadn't even planted. He noticed some self-starter maples or walnut trees, and he would mow around them.

Violá, trees in his yard.

He wouldn't throw anything away if it was ‘still good,’ a leftover from growing up in the depression.

He wasn't always that way, I'm sure. When he was 17, he joined the Navy and fought in submarines in WW II. He shared some things with me after I joined the Marine Corps that made it clear it wasn't an easygoing experience.

Though I don't think he ever heard the word, in his later years, he lived his Ikigai like no one else I've known.

My favorite picture of my dad. Harvesting corn for dinner from his backyard.

After retiring, he would spend winter in Arizona. Most years, I would schedule a week to spend with him there. The picture at the top is from our hike in Sabino Canyon.

In our last conversation, he said he enjoyed just sitting and being together, which is what we did. Not a lot of talking, just being.

That entire week was that way. Whether we were hiking in the desert or sitting and watching the sun go down, we connected in a way that we had never done before.

Without planning to do so, we were on a quest to know and experience one another.

At week’s end, we hugged and said our goodbyes. As he turned away, I pulled him close one more time and kissed him on the head like I did when I was a boy.

“I’m glad you’re my dad. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

It would be less than a week later that he would be gone.

He was a complex and imperfect man, and he was my hero. I miss him.

Me and ‘E’ enjoying the Wisconsin State Fair

A short six weeks after saying a final goodbye to my dad, I welcomed my first grandchild. As I write this, I realize it is a third story representing a moment where a bigger reality became clear.

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.

Anatole France

It is a weird demarcation of no longer being something while becoming something new. One quest ending and another beginning. Now I’m ‘Grandpa Marlow,’ as my kids called my dad. On this day celebrating fathers, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be.

Quest well.