In all the accolades for my dad, not a one noted his ability to wield a hammer. AS A PARENT, dad was fairly hands-off when it came to discipline. That was mom’s department. But one instance is seared in my memory because of its sting.
That’s because he was pretty useless when it came to home improvement projects. Dad’s strength was hammering home thought-provoking opinions.
The contrast in talents was brought to sharp relief with Richard Sigg’s untimely death. While Richard could fix a leaky roof, dad worked to see everyone got a fair shake at having a roof over his head.
“The Register should be a champion for the underdog,” is written in our company’s handbook. Now, Richard would take that literally by giving someone the shirt off his back, while dad would take it philosophically and wage war on the inequalities of the tax code.
We need both kinds of warriors in this world.
I was a teenager and in the mood to test my limits. Together, we were trying to change a light bulb. Seems the fix-it deficit is genetic. To be fair, it was one of those recessed kind and the fixture wouldn’t pull down.
Anyway, in what I thought was a grown-up response to the situation, I said “crap.”
Dad was clearly offended and told me he was disappointed I would use such language. I burned with humiliation. Until that moment, I don’t think I was mature enough to realize how much I valued his opinion. I wanted him to think of me as a lady, much like my mother, which had nothing to do with fashion but everything to do with self-respect, and did not include a potty mouth.
Dad has been a soldier these past few months. He didn’t let his situation deter him from being grateful from a life well lived. He felt especially lucky that he had a clear sense of his dying. Over the last month the conversation changed course. He let go of politics, the newspaper and current events. Instead, he focused on family and how he relished his role as provider, father, mentor and friend.
Before I left him on Saturday I said, “I love you, dad.” He looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “I know you do.” At the time, I didn’t know it would be our last exchange. It feels good he realized the extent of my admiration.
As I sat with him Tuesday, he let go of his grip on life over the course of the day. He died shortly before dawn Wednesday.
His peace in dying came from knowing he’ll continue to live in our hearts.
Dying with peace, gratitude
