One Good Thing I Remembered About My Dad Last Night

That helped me to see something about myself

My dad died in 1987.

Thirty-four years have passed since his death, and I haven’t thought about him much lately.

But I remembered a few things about my dad last night after talking to my octogenarian mom.

Well, actually, I was spending the night.

Her caregiver tested positive for Covid, so I became her caregiver for a night. Before she went to bed, I asked my mom ten questions about me just for fun and to keep her mind sharp, easy questions off the top of my head.

Where was I born?

Almost in the backseat of a car.

How old am I?

52.

How long have I been married?

26 years (actually 21)

What was dad’s middle name?

Lee.

How tall am I?

Six-foot-two (I’m six-foot-three)

How did I get one T (Scot) in my first name?

I went on a trip to Scotland with two friends. It was a beautiful place. I had just learned Scotland was part of my heritage. So I gave you only one t, but it caused you a lot of trouble in school because your teachers thought you misspelled your name.

Would I rather read a book or watch a movie?

Read a book.

What is the best Christmas gift you gave me?

A cat.

What is a meal you used to cook I disliked?

I don’t know. (It was a tie between hamburger meat cooked in green peppers and liver. I used to hide them in a napkin and toss them into the trash.)

Do you remember the name of one of my girlfriends before I got married?

You never introduced me to your girlfriends.

Remembering my dad

Before I handed my mom her toothbrush and a plastic bowl to spit in, I pointed to a picture of my dad on her bedroom wall and said, “What do you remember about this guy?”

“He was a real encourager. He made me believe I could do anything.”

I knew the details. He encouraged her to go back to college. He went to her classes the first week. She’d given her two-week notice and still had to one more week to work. He encouraged her to direct a play after the director of a play she was in quit. She went on to direct 18 plays.

It’s hard to remember my dad since it’s been thirty-four years since he died.

He is like a distant fading memory. But, maybe, this is my own fault. If I took the time to remember memories of my dad, I think I would feel a lot closer to him. Whenever a family member dies in a movie, some other character always says, “They will always be with you in your heart.”

But I think this is true only if the living person takes time to remember that person, and I’m not good at doing this. I’ve visited his grave only a few times since his death, and it’s my thirteen-year son who often brings up my dad.

A sleepover with my son

He invited me into his room for a sleepover a while back after I made some cinnamon rolls around 10 p.m. He was in the top bed of his bunk bed and I was on the bottom, and I was telling him a few stories about me as a child.

The time I stuck bubble gum in my friend Don Brock’s hair and his sister became really angry.

Then I told him one about my dad who would have been his grandfather. We were taking a soccer team photo at a catholic retreat center, and my dad was sitting next to a priest when he said, “What the hell is sticking in my ass?”

It was out of character for my dad to say “ass.” I never heard him curse before. We were on an overnight weekend trip for a tournament, and when we got home, my mom asked me, “What was your favorite part of the trip?”

I said, “When my dad said, ‘What the hell is sticking up my ass?”

My favorite memory of my dad

This is my favorite memory of my dad because it made him a regular guy. Tangible to a twelve-year-old. He was a Southeast Asian scholar who studied at Oxford University, the author of seven books, and a university president.

My dad coached my youth soccer teams. He took us to college basketball games. We went out for pizza every Wednesday and to Buffalo Braves (now the Los Angeles Clippers) games on cold, blizzardy winter nights in the 1970s.

Forty-five years later, the LA Clippers are still my favorite basketball team.

I have memories of my dad putting names of pro athletes on Christmas gifts to make it seem like they were gifts from Bob McAdoo, Terry Bradshaw, or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, making Christmas a magical time every December.

My dad sent me to basketball camps every summer. I have memories of family road trips to see professional baseball games in Toronto, Boston, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Cincinnati, and St. Louis, my brother and I fighting over who crossed the imaginary line in the middle of the back seat of the station wagon.

I have memories of traveling on road trips to away games to Bowling Green, Kentucky or Clarksville, Tennessee, to watch the Murray State Racers with Ricky Hood, Lamont Sleets, and Glen Green playing Austin Peay University.

The Austin Peay fans would chant,” Let’s go, Peay! Let’s go Peay!”

And we yelled back, “The bathroom is over there.”

I have a memory of my dad taking me to visit college campuses. I have a memory of asking my dad questions about terrorism to write an editorial for my high school newspaper class and I remember my dad driving me to a journalism camp taught by professional journalists.

And I have a memory of watching my favorite film Hoosiers with my dad and our family on a drizzly Christmas day in 1987, the last movie we ever saw together as a family before he died.

But my favorite memory of my dad is of him saying, “What the hell is sticking in my ass?” because this made him more relatable to me as a 12-year-old boy and apparently he sat on a cactus needle or something else kinda sharp.

Thanks for reading my story. I hope it brings memories of your dad.

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