A TRIBUTE TO A FIX IT GUY
Today marks the 23rd anniversary of my father’s passing from mesothelioma. He was 75; much too young to die. My father was a fix it guy, a shop teacher at Hunt Jr. High in Tacoma, Washington. He could fix anything, and if it couldn’t be fixed in the garage by a little epoxy glue, sandpaper and paint, it would be fixed by a hug and a, “It’s ok, Lauri. It’ll all work out.” He was compassionate, sentimental, sensitive, and he smelled of Mennen Skin Bracer aftershave and sawdust.
When we were going through a tough time, Dad had four sayings about life: “We all have our peculiarities, you’ve got to roll with the punches, do everything in moderation, and you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” The first two mantras I have adopted, as they have seen me through the ups and downs of life. After all, we are all a bit peculiar, aren’t we? I know I am. And I’ve done my share of rolling with the punches over the years. Admittedly, I have failed considerably at doing everything in moderation. And the bit about the sow’s ear, well, I never quite understood that. Am I the sow? Is he the sow? What was he telling me? It didn’t sound good either way!
Dad and I loved to play “name that tune.” When we were together, any word would trigger a song, usually from a musical. Throughout our childhood, dad would go to the library and check out records of Broadway musicals, then record them on cassette tapes for us to play on road trips. My favorites were Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. We knew every lyric. Dad had eclectic taste in music. While mom listened either to the news or opera on PBS, he would play The Mills Brothers, Tijuana Brass, Glen Miller, the Lennon Sisters, Nelson Eddy, Floyd Crammer, John Denver, and The Carpenters.
If Dad wasn’t piddling around the yard or fixing something in the garage, he could be found at someone else’s house fixing a loose doorknob or a leaky faucet. Though chances are, he would be found napping on the chaise lounge in the front yard or in his favorite black leather chair with three dachshunds sprawled out upon his lap. He was that kind of guy, huggable, snuggly, the kind of person you could cuddle up to and feel his love and simpatico.
Dad had a propensity for pessimism and melancholy, but it was counteracted by my mother’s inexhaustible optimism. He also experienced a lot of arthritis pain and sleeplessness. He bore it bravely and rarely complained. His grit, strength of character, and his work ethic still inspire me today.
So, on the anniversary of his passing, I miss him terribly. I miss his Mennen aftershave and the feel of his five o’clock shadow when I kissed his cheek. I miss his broad toothy smile. I wish I had one more day to tell him how much he meant to me, what a wonderful father he was, and how I appreciated all his fixing and making things better. To quote one of Dad’s favorite movies, It’s a Wonderful Life, “Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around, he leaves such an awful hole, doesn’t he?” Yes, Dad, you left an awful hole, yet you left enough love behind to fill it.
