SoonerInKCMO
7/20/2006, 12:12 AM
Wisdom Of Our Fathers (http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1579540414/sr=8-7/qid=1153370876/ref=pd_bbs_7/103-6198820-8369405?ie=UTF8) by Joe Kita.
Excerpt:
Chapter 6 - Death, Difficulty, and Despair
My father's father died the day I was married. The reception dinner had just ended, and the dancing was about to begin. The clatter of silver on china was being replaced by the clatter of chair legs on hardwood as the guests pushed back from their tables. It was that contented pause in all marriage celebrations when everyone tosses their linen napkin toward the centerpiece, pats their stomach, looks around, and smiles. This is family. This is good. We are blessed. That's when a waiter whispered in my father's ear that he had a phone call, a strange message, indeed, given that just about everyone he knew was present.
Everyone, that is, except his father - my grandfather - who had gotten ill a few days prior while out of town on vacation. But we had been assured that it wasn't serious. In fact, there had been a chance that he still might come. The news on the line, however, was not so optimistic. My father listened, dressed in a gray tuxedo that, more appropriately now, should have been black.
The band was raging and the dance floor was full when he returned. He went to his table, picked up his beer, and smiled. It was nothing, he said with a shrug, just a question about the bill. All taken care of. Not to worry. Is everyone having a good time?
Or, at least, that's what I surmised.
My father never told me or anyone else that day that his father had died. He danced genuinely with all who asked. He shook the hands of countless relatives, patted their backs, and joked at how far his son had come. He posed for an album's worth of photographs, standing tall and smiling proud. He waved enthusiastically as my new wife and I pulled away in our limousine, sipping Dom Perignon, the effervescence in our eyes.
And the next morning, when he drove us to the airport to leave for our honeymoon, he still kept his secret. He didn't want the greatest moment in my life to be spoiled by the worst moment in his.
Imagine that. Your only son, your only father. One begins, the other finishes. No space in between. No time to sort out what one means and the other meant. That's life, that's death. That's joy, that's sorrow. That's courage, that's fear.
One of my father's favorite sayings was "Take it like a Marine," and that he did. From him I learned that you don't have to be in the military to take a bullet. Every one of us sees active duty every day, and eventually, we'll all be seriously wounded. I wished that he had spoken about the pain, just because I wonder sometimes how it felt. But he probably taught me more by not saying anything. Not to have spoken or screamed or grimaced or cried, showed by that the hurt can be handled, that misfortune is never to supersede happiness, and that the bad must never be allowed to overshadow the good.
Chapters begin with an opening essay like this one; after that, it's quotes from ordinary fathers answering some of life's big questions. Essays about some of the fathers featured in the book usually close out the chapter.
Fourth or fifth time I've read it since I got it several years ago. Every time, it's been a straight through read; I have to finish it once I've started.
Excerpt:
Chapter 6 - Death, Difficulty, and Despair
My father's father died the day I was married. The reception dinner had just ended, and the dancing was about to begin. The clatter of silver on china was being replaced by the clatter of chair legs on hardwood as the guests pushed back from their tables. It was that contented pause in all marriage celebrations when everyone tosses their linen napkin toward the centerpiece, pats their stomach, looks around, and smiles. This is family. This is good. We are blessed. That's when a waiter whispered in my father's ear that he had a phone call, a strange message, indeed, given that just about everyone he knew was present.
Everyone, that is, except his father - my grandfather - who had gotten ill a few days prior while out of town on vacation. But we had been assured that it wasn't serious. In fact, there had been a chance that he still might come. The news on the line, however, was not so optimistic. My father listened, dressed in a gray tuxedo that, more appropriately now, should have been black.
The band was raging and the dance floor was full when he returned. He went to his table, picked up his beer, and smiled. It was nothing, he said with a shrug, just a question about the bill. All taken care of. Not to worry. Is everyone having a good time?
Or, at least, that's what I surmised.
My father never told me or anyone else that day that his father had died. He danced genuinely with all who asked. He shook the hands of countless relatives, patted their backs, and joked at how far his son had come. He posed for an album's worth of photographs, standing tall and smiling proud. He waved enthusiastically as my new wife and I pulled away in our limousine, sipping Dom Perignon, the effervescence in our eyes.
And the next morning, when he drove us to the airport to leave for our honeymoon, he still kept his secret. He didn't want the greatest moment in my life to be spoiled by the worst moment in his.
Imagine that. Your only son, your only father. One begins, the other finishes. No space in between. No time to sort out what one means and the other meant. That's life, that's death. That's joy, that's sorrow. That's courage, that's fear.
One of my father's favorite sayings was "Take it like a Marine," and that he did. From him I learned that you don't have to be in the military to take a bullet. Every one of us sees active duty every day, and eventually, we'll all be seriously wounded. I wished that he had spoken about the pain, just because I wonder sometimes how it felt. But he probably taught me more by not saying anything. Not to have spoken or screamed or grimaced or cried, showed by that the hurt can be handled, that misfortune is never to supersede happiness, and that the bad must never be allowed to overshadow the good.
Chapters begin with an opening essay like this one; after that, it's quotes from ordinary fathers answering some of life's big questions. Essays about some of the fathers featured in the book usually close out the chapter.
Fourth or fifth time I've read it since I got it several years ago. Every time, it's been a straight through read; I have to finish it once I've started.