The 5th of November.
On this particular date nineteen years ago, my life stopped short. Everything I had known up until that point was gone. As quick as the blade from a guillotine slices through the air and severs flesh, I experienced the same sort of tearing of my soul. Suddenly I was thrust into a world that - at the age of fourteen - I just wasn't ready for.
My life up until November 5th, 1991 wasn't a bed of roses. But it was good. Aside from a few baby robins that, throughout the years, I was unable to coax back to health, I had absolutely no experience with death. Even my goldfish seemed to live extraordinarily long lives. (Although, now that I think about it, I'm sure my mother had something to do with that.) My closest experience with death was through other people's losses. And while their situations did sadden me, I felt no real grief. No real despair.
So when death took the form of cancer and wrenched my father away from this world that dreary November evening, I was in no way prepared to deal with it. In fact, to this day, I honestly don't know how I did deal with it. I think, at first, I was in shock, and for years all I could really remember about that night was the overwhelming feeling of loss that I experienced as I held his hand and watched his life drain away.
But this is not a blog about death. (On which I could write pages.) It's a post about being thankful. And what all this rambling has been leading up to (most inarticulately, I have to admit) is that, even though my father was taken from me so early on in my life, I'm thankful for the fourteen years that I did get to spend with him. I appreciate all that he did for me, all that he inspired in me, and all that he taught me.
Spending most of his youth in an orphanage before securing a job and his own apartment at the age of fourteen, my dad never really had what you would call a constant father figure in his life. His family - or lack thereof - was by no means normal, and I'm always amazed when I look back on our time together that he, having had no positive parental influence in his own life, could have had such a profound effect on mine. In fact, I think his determination to rise above his upbringing was one of the things that made him such a great father.
What I remember most about my dad, aside from his love of softball, was his love of art. Not many people probably knew this, but my dad was an incredibly talented artist. When I was little, we would draw together, and his sketches of houses, landscapes, and people would amaze me. It was through him, I believe, that I discovered my own creativity and, as a result, a lifelong appreciation of art.
So today I'm thankful for my dad, and appreciate the time we had together. I'm thankful for how he raised me, and for all the wonderful memories that I'm, fortunately, able to tap into anytime I want. He owned his own drywall business, taught me everything I know about softball, and sacrificed a lot so that I could be, well, one happy kid. :)
Charles Wickey
May 18, 1935 - November 5, 1991
__________________
"I used to think anything over $40 was an exorbitant price for a ball bat.
Now the contents of my daughter's equipment bag are worth more than everything else in the car together - including clothes, jewelry, watches, and laptop computer."
-- From "Then I Became a Softball Dad"
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