30 Days of Thanks - Day 5

Though my dad passed away on Valentine's Day, February 14, 2005, I think of him often and I hope he knew that I was and am grateful for him.

I'm thankful that I was able to set aside my nervousness and face my public speaking fears in order to speak at his funeral. I would have always regretted it, if I hadn't stood up to remember him.

Below is the eulogy that I spoke at dad's memorial:

My dad was unconventional and a pack-rat; a home full of gadgets with several to spare will attest to that. He was never “on the fence” about anything, nor without an opinion. What he believed in, he believed strongly and with passion. Sometimes those opinions would draw me into debates, which I could never “win”, but that taught me how to speak my mind.

When he wasn’t voicing his dissatisfaction with the government or telling one of his stories about war, history, or growing up in the depression … he would be telling silly jokes. Just a few weeks ago, he told the corniest joke about a duck walking into a bar and telling the bartender to put the drink on “his bill”. Then he’d laugh his infectious laugh.

Dad was a disciplinarian. I remember he asked one of the boys to mow the lawn one day before day’s end. My brother left all day and got back after dark. That brother was mowing the lawn in the dark. Or when one sibling, who snuck out of their bedroom window at night; he installed a burglar alarm in the window while they were gone, which was set off when they were sneaking back in.

When his eyes were better, he constantly read. He had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and could talk about any subject. He’d learn and then go do what he learned. He’d teach what he learned. He’d throw himself into a hobby or interest 100%. He’s always had an interest in photography. From the old cameras to all the new digital ones … if you were around him… he’d be pointing a camera at you. When I was little, he captured me sitting on the “potty chair”. His photo won a contest, so there I was with my pants around my ankles on the front page of the Arvada Sentinel! The caption read “to protect this young lady’s identity, we won’t reveal her name – but this photo was taken by Arvil Lee Cribbs at 6152 Independence Street."

My dad was sensitive. I had joined a dating service and was telling him about an experience I had with someone who had started emailing me. I told him there were too many things in this person’s childhood, like being bullied, that he hadn’t let go of. Something in dad related to that … he said that person was an intellect. He was sensitive to other’s needs. If he were still driving later in life, he’d still be picking up hitch hikers. Nikki and I went to my parent’s house a few years ago for Thanksgiving. We ran to the store to pick up a few items and were approached by a homeless person wanting money for food. I gave him the couple of dollars I had left in my purse. When we got home, and mentioned how sad it would be not to be with family or have food on Thanksgiving … dad told us to go back and see if he was still there and bring him back. He would be eating Thanksgiving dinner with us. If there were a need, dad would want to fill it. I learned that if you can do a little … you can do a lot. He really had compassion for those less fortunate, inflicted, or just plain down on their luck. He was generous and had a big heart. I think I was the only child in the city of Arvada with my own candy drawer.

Integrity and accountability are two words that keep revealing themselves as I write this. He had a strong work ethic and, in addition to being quite the character … he was a man of character.

There is more than one way to express love. And though I rarely heard dad say the words, he didn’t have to. His resolute and unfailing actions spoke volumes. He was a strong man with a huge heart and giving spirit.

As the shock wears off, I’m discovering a huge hole in my heart. However, I realized yesterday that dad still lives on through me. And when I see my “pack-rat” tendencies come through, or I become long-winded (like now), or I have a strong opinion about something, or I have compassion for another person … I’ll know there’s still a part of dad that lives on.

I didn’t fully realize this until I lost you, dad …but you’re my hero. I love you.

Daughter, Merri