15 Years Gone, Yet Still Here

My dad died on this day in 2007, but his spirit lives on, occasionally in unusual places

My dad with his first grandchild, Nicholas, in 1994 (top left), drawing a superhero for Ben in 2002 (top right) and with five of his nine grandchildren in 2004.

Throughout his life, my dad was a dreamer. Mornings around the kitchen table — my mom ensured my sister and I had breakfast every day — often included tales of his dreams from the night before, with dad going into detail about the kaleidoscopic images that remained with him.

A half century later, I don’t remember a particular dream of his that stood out to me, although I’m sure my mom and sister probably could. What I took from his telling was how vivid those dreams were, and the minutia he would get into while recalling them.

I don’t doubt that my father’s dreams were enhanced by the fact that he was a visual artist, or by the pharmaceuticals that he had to be on for the last half of his life, one that was cut short 15 years ago today.

Fifteen years. Typing that fact just blows my mind.

Fifteen years feels like many lifetimes ago, and yet I remember the last time I saw my father as vividly as any dream he may have had. Other memories — a heady cocktail when they flood back in, as they often do around this time of year — send me traveling back through time.

My dad was fascinated by time travel, and comic books, and science fiction. He enjoyed horror films — no thanks — and the music from his teen years. At one point later in his life, I wondered why he seemed to stay stuck in the 1950s, until I realized it was because he could remember those times when he was free of pain.

Learning How to Parent

I became a better father when my dad died.

Watching mom and dad deal with his myriad physical maladies was one reason I never thought I would be a parent, let alone one with four children. My mom spent most of my childhood and a large chunk of my adult life caring for my dad, with a level of devotion that still amazes me.

I saw their sacrifices – even though in my self-centered youth, they may not have seemed like much at the time – and never believed I could do the same.

My parents, three weeks before their 40th wedding anniversary in 2004.

If anything, my father’s passing forced me to focus on the time I had with my own children. It’s coincidence, perhaps, that my journey as a photographer and stage parent began the fall after my father died, when Ben got his first professional roles in two Washington, D.C., shows.

During a terribly difficult time, the late-night car rides presented an opportunity to spend time with my son while mourning my father. Two years later, when Ben moved to New York for “Ragtime,” Jill or I went with him, essentially becoming single parents for almost a year until a new caregiver arrangement could be established. That forced me to focus on having quality time with all my kids, because I no longer could be in the office 12 hours a day.

Since then, I’ve called myself a workaholic in a 12-step program. For years, I put my job or the task ahead of everything else. I wanted to be a success at what I did for a living, always scared that it could be taken away from me as it had been largely taken from him. I wanted to hit the home run and move as far from my hometown as I could.

And I did. But there were costs. I missed a lot of time with my children – all of them – when they were younger. I saw my parents less and less when I moved from home.

I did not realize how frail my father was until the last two to three years of his life. He had been in poor health for so long that I started to take it for granted. Dad felt bad – all the time.

You could still see glimpses of his talent. Until close to the end, he still could draw anything, although his physical ailments made it tough to measure up to his perfectionist standards. After an 18-month burst of creativity between my third and fourth grade year, he largely stopped, only picking up a pencil or pen to do a project for my mom or when the muse hit so strongly that he couldn’t resist.

To this day, even though I don’t work as hard as I once did, I live in fear that the creative muse will leave and not return. For me, creativity is how I focus the chaos that’s inside my head.

The Spirit and the Dog

I believe in the afterlife, not with any scientific certainty, but that a person’s presence can linger and occasionally surface long after they have departed this earth. Over time, my mom, sister, and I have told each other stories of dad “making an appearance.”

For me, in most instances, it’s when I’m out taking photos. But around this time two years ago, my father’s spirit showed up in the form of a dog — a 10-week-old Pit mix puppy that had been taken to the Alexandria animal shelter in very bad shape.

Backstory: Jill had been talking about wanting a dog for some time and convinced me to foster the puppy — initially billed as a lab mix, as they all seem to be — for two weeks so she could get well enough to be adopted.

Initially, things did not appear promising because the puppy was in such poor health. She was emaciated — just over 6 pounds when we got her — and on medications for worms and mange. Her hips were in very bad shape from being caged and she could not walk more than a few steps. The lack of fur gave her the appearance of a large rodent.

Penny on the day we got her from the shelter (left), outside two years ago today (center), and now.

Behind all the physical problems, you could still see her spirit and sense of mischief. Sitting outside with her on the 13th anniversary of my dad’s death, I told her we had to go inside. She stared back at me with human eyes and a look I’d seen on my father’s face any number of times. I couldn’t shake it. Soon after, we were foster fails.

Today, Penny is a 56-pound ball of happiness. She’s a protector — a foster mother to a cat that seems appreciative, but not amused — and a lovely soul. She still gives me the dad look from time to time.

Holding the Spirit Close

Ten years ago, my friend Eric Kleppinger and I were talking about childhood memories and their effects on our parenting. Eric had recently lost his father too and had returned from a trip back to a place where he had lived when he was 11 or 12. He seemed perplexed that he did not feel the loss of his father more. I mentioned that it was the same for me.

Just like I don’t recall my father’s dreams, some memories that were once vivid to me have become blurred by the passage of time. I miss my dad sharply at times, as the anniversary of his birth and death approach, and during family gatherings like the one we were fortunate to have with our kids this past week. I wish my children knew him better, much like Jill wishes the kids could remember her mom, who died a couple of years before my dad.

But then, when I think about it, I see my dad every time I look in the mirror, and every time I look at one of my adult children. And I know that he’s smiling from his seat in the balcony.