The things you remember

[obl1terat1ion]

Today is my fathers second anniversary of my fathers death. I have came across the fact that you guys are my family. When my world was falling apart i could at lest know that i could come on here and find a witty comment by FC, or something cute written by morve. And for that i would like to thank you all. I <3 you guys.

[Battosay]

Oh honey, I hear you so much.
My mother left when I was 2, and I was raised by my dad. He died at 50, when I was 15.
Even now, after over a decade, I still think about him every night, when I go to bed and pour myself a glass of water, as he used to always put one near my bed before I went to sleep. That's actually the last thing I saw him doing.
I wish I saw this topic before, but browsing on my phone is just so slow and annoying :/
Anyway, I'm with you :)

And really, as the daughter of a man who brought great strides and breakthroughs to automation in his field, it just makes sense, now doesn't it?

<3
Just <3
:)

[rhacer]

Today is the third anniversary of my father's death. I've been struggling with remembering all day. I'm going to post the blog entry I wrote as I sat in my office the day I learned of his death.

Today I Wore Tartan
Today I wore tartan in honour of my father who departed this life somewhere near 4:00am Pacific Daylight Time. I'm still trying to come to grips with how to respond, my Grant tartan tie is just a small way for me to show some level of respect at his passing. I struggled with my relationship with my father. I'm struggling with his passing. I was fortunate enough that my wife insisted I go to the hospital on Sunday to visit him. The last time I saw him in the hospital he picked a fight with me from his hospital bed. This time I don't know if he even recognized me. None of the things that could have been (possibly needed to be) said were said. Hopefully my holding the hand of this frail old man was enough to convey that I loved him.

I loved my dad. We couldn't be in the same room, but I still loved him. I've never understood why he chose to become who he became, or act in the ways he chose to act. Actually, that's a lie, I know all too well what happened. I don't know why he made the choices he did, but I know what happened.

William Shakespeare and J.R.R. Tolkien (or perhaps it was Peter Jackson's take on Tolkien) provide the best pictures. The Bard gave us Othello in which the good and noble man falls prey to the whisperings of Iago, destroying not only those around him but himself. Jackson paints a portrait in his film adaptations of The Lord of the Rings. His brush gives us Théoden, a good and wise monarch who has fallen under the spell of Gríma Wormtongue, becoming completely ineffectual as a leader, unable to think or act for himself. In both cases a strong and good man is brought low by not the weapons, but the words of others.

So now I have a choice. I can choose to remember the man I knew as a boy, into my teens, twenties, and early thirties, the huge, tall man with the booming voice. The man who fought a war as part of the Greatest Generation. The man who taught me to drive, and then allowed me to drive him thousands of miles around the Northwest as he traveled from one small town to another to minister in their churches. The man who shared season tickets with me to the Portland Pride. The man who would road trip with me to Seattle to watch the Timbers or the Pride or the Pythons. The man who attended a Blazers game with me on Christmas Night when I was just a pup. The man who didn't appreciate the music I listened to, but never told me to turn it off. The man who shared Monty Python with me. The man who taught me to drive a standard transmission while traveling to England, then let me let it rip when we hit the Autobahns in Germany. The man with whom I saw Shindler's List and Saving Private Ryan. The man who never missed a Blazers game on the radio and would often sit with me in the car not wanting to get out so we could hear the end of the game before going on about whatever it was we needed to do. The man, who for a Christmas when I was just a lad, completely disassembled, painted by hand, and rebuilt a bicycle in secret so it would be waiting under the tree for me. The man who introduced me to Alistair MacLean and C. S. Forrester. The man who I am now shedding tears over losing.

Or I can remember what he became due to the influence of others.

I think I will choose the former.

I love you Dad.

[Battosay]

...that was really beautifull
Thanks for sharing it :')

[rhacer]

Thank you Battosay.

[MoRmEnGiL]

Very touching.. As I said, we should all wear proudly what our parents have given us, cause it is part of what we are..