In June of 1998, I was a busy 35-year-old with a wife and a 21-month old son. I had decided to buy my dad an electric razor for Father's Day that year. He had gotten tired of his old soap, brush and Gillette blades, and he would never treat himself by buying his own electric razor.
I didn't made time to go buy his gift before Father's Day, figuring I'd find the time either on Father's Day or soon after, besides, the only thing my dad really wanted was to see his grandson, Ethan.
Ethan had become the center of his attention, the apple of his eye since he'd been born.
So, on Father's Day, I decided we'd take Ethan over, eat dinner with my folks, let him have all the "Ethan time" he wanted and call it a success. I'd go that week, buy a razor for my dad and give it to him later.
I never got the chance.
Two days after Father's Day that year, my mom woke me up. Something was wrong with my dad. I called 911, hopped in my truck and sped over, beating the ambulance there. He was sitting on the side of his bed, clearly not well.
"Are you OK, Daddy?"
"It's gonna be a bad day, Bill."
Those were his last words.
By the time he got to the hospital, the aneurysm in my dad's brain had put him in a coma. He died a couple of days later, after the doctors and nurses told us he had no brain activity, and my mom and I made the agonizing decision to remove life support.
My world went silent. My greatest champion was no more, and I, assuming there was always more time, had failed to honor him on his last Father's Day.
I think about that last Father's Day with my dad every year.
To this day, I avoid the electric razor aisle at any store that sells them.
And yes, almost a quarter of a century has passed, but I still feel the pang of not making the time to make a simple purchase. It probably wouldn't have taken more than 15 minutes.
I just thought I had more time.
So, my goal for this particular post is to tell you not to put off what you could do today. You should plan for tomorrow, but when it comes to the people you love, you can't assume you'll have it. What if tomorrow never comes?
It didn't for me, and I regret it every. single. Father's Day.
Tell your dad you love him. Go buy him a gift. Make time for him, but don't limit my lesson to your dad. Tell your mom. Generously shower kindness and love on the people around you. Have that conversation. Reconcile. Buy the gift. Write the thank you card. Take the moment.
Because, as much as I'd like to promise that you'll have another opportunity, I can't.
Go love, people. Go love people.
When my dad died, I was writing a weekly column in the Rome News-Tribune. I've shared it before. Here it is again, with a couple of edits to reflect the current time:
Ethan walked through the door and looked toward the bedroom where my parents had slept for the past 13 years.
"Papa?" he called out, his big blue eyes wide with expectation. When no answer came, he toddled off toward the kitchen. "Papa?" he said again. Still now answer.
"Ethan, c'mere buddy," I said to my son, kneeling to his level. He came closer and looked toward me, puzzled.
"Remember the other day when Papa got sick? Well, Papa had to go to heaven, and he can't come back," I told him.
Through all the tears that I've cried, through the gut-wrenching pain I feel in the pit of my stomach, the hardest part of losing my daddy was trying to help my 21-month-old understand that Papa is gone.
Papa was Ethan's number one fan. From the day his only grandchild entered this world my daddy beamed with pride. His 66-year-old joints popped and creaked, but he didn't let that stop him from crawling around on the hardwood floors after Ethan. Emphysema had taken much of his breath, but Papa didn't let that keep him from blowing heartily on Ethan's bare belly.
If he didn't hear a daily status report on him, Papa would call to find out what "his baby" had been doing.
Ethan returned that attention with a giggle and grin every time Papa came into sight.
He would squeal his name as we turned to cross Silver Creek on our way to Papa and Mimi's, and he would stand at the gate of their white picket fence flashing his infectious smile as he waited for Papa's familiar figure to appear in the doorway.
The sight of the two of them together was a little bit of heaven on hearth.
That little piece of heaven died on June 24.
Odis Felton Fortenberry was never elected to any office. He wasn't a member of any civic clubs, and he didn't play golf. He didn't earn any diplomas; he never even learned to read or write. He came into this world poor, the son of a sharecropper, and he left this world poor, retired from a strenuous and dirty job of molding aluminum.
He was my hero.
Without titles, education, achievements or affiliations, Pood, as most all of his family called him, could only be judged at face value. While he had a past of heavy drinking and hard living, there was much in his life of which to be proud.
Over 20 years ago he laid down the bottle at an altar in a Pentecostal church in Waco, Ga. He emerged a man dedicated to God and family with an uncanny ability to memorize scripture despite his illiteracy. He had his occasional stumbles, but that just proved he was human.
I'm going to miss Papa.
I'm going to miss his music. He loved to play the "Wildwood Flower" and "Little Brown Jug" on his guitar, and he had a habit of singing a line of a song to illustrate a point.
I'm going to miss his dedication to my mom. Despite the fact that he detested traffic and crowds, he faithfully drove my mother, who did not drive, to discount and grocery stores for most of the nearly 37 years they shared. After he retired, he always had a cup of hot coffee waiting for her when she got home from work, and if there was one biscuit or one slice of cake left, he wouldn't touch it if he thought Mama might want it.
I'm going to miss his retelling of the stories of his indulgence of me. Once when I was about 2, my mother said I refused to obey her. No form of punishment worked, so, in desperation, she put me in the closet for five seconds.
When my dad got home from work, mama told him what she had done, and evidently he lit into her like fire on dry wood.
In the 33 years since, there was seldom a time when the three of us were together that my dad did not jokingly say, "At least I ain't the one that put you in a durned old closet."
The stories go on and on. My favorite, I think, is something I heard my Aunt Connie say to Mama in the hospital waiting room, just after my dad died.
"Y'all were always so close," she said, the tears trailing down her face.
"Louise, when you and Odis married, it wasn't like it was two, it was like it was just one. And then, when Bill was born, it was the same thing.
"It wasn't like it was three, it was just one. Y'all just seemed to love each other so much."
I can't think of a better testimony to my dad.
"Papa?" he called out, his big blue eyes wide with expectation. When no answer came, he toddled off toward the kitchen. "Papa?" he said again. Still now answer.
"Ethan, c'mere buddy," I said to my son, kneeling to his level. He came closer and looked toward me, puzzled.
"Remember the other day when Papa got sick? Well, Papa had to go to heaven, and he can't come back," I told him.
Through all the tears that I've cried, through the gut-wrenching pain I feel in the pit of my stomach, the hardest part of losing my daddy was trying to help my 21-month-old understand that Papa is gone.
Papa was Ethan's number one fan. From the day his only grandchild entered this world my daddy beamed with pride. His 66-year-old joints popped and creaked, but he didn't let that stop him from crawling around on the hardwood floors after Ethan. Emphysema had taken much of his breath, but Papa didn't let that keep him from blowing heartily on Ethan's bare belly.
If he didn't hear a daily status report on him, Papa would call to find out what "his baby" had been doing.
Ethan returned that attention with a giggle and grin every time Papa came into sight.
He would squeal his name as we turned to cross Silver Creek on our way to Papa and Mimi's, and he would stand at the gate of their white picket fence flashing his infectious smile as he waited for Papa's familiar figure to appear in the doorway.
The sight of the two of them together was a little bit of heaven on hearth.
That little piece of heaven died on June 24.
Odis Felton Fortenberry was never elected to any office. He wasn't a member of any civic clubs, and he didn't play golf. He didn't earn any diplomas; he never even learned to read or write. He came into this world poor, the son of a sharecropper, and he left this world poor, retired from a strenuous and dirty job of molding aluminum.
He was my hero.
Without titles, education, achievements or affiliations, Pood, as most all of his family called him, could only be judged at face value. While he had a past of heavy drinking and hard living, there was much in his life of which to be proud.
Over 20 years ago he laid down the bottle at an altar in a Pentecostal church in Waco, Ga. He emerged a man dedicated to God and family with an uncanny ability to memorize scripture despite his illiteracy. He had his occasional stumbles, but that just proved he was human.
I'm going to miss Papa.
I'm going to miss his music. He loved to play the "Wildwood Flower" and "Little Brown Jug" on his guitar, and he had a habit of singing a line of a song to illustrate a point.
I'm going to miss his dedication to my mom. Despite the fact that he detested traffic and crowds, he faithfully drove my mother, who did not drive, to discount and grocery stores for most of the nearly 37 years they shared. After he retired, he always had a cup of hot coffee waiting for her when she got home from work, and if there was one biscuit or one slice of cake left, he wouldn't touch it if he thought Mama might want it.
I'm going to miss his retelling of the stories of his indulgence of me. Once when I was about 2, my mother said I refused to obey her. No form of punishment worked, so, in desperation, she put me in the closet for five seconds.
When my dad got home from work, mama told him what she had done, and evidently he lit into her like fire on dry wood.
In the 33 years since, there was seldom a time when the three of us were together that my dad did not jokingly say, "At least I ain't the one that put you in a durned old closet."
The stories go on and on. My favorite, I think, is something I heard my Aunt Connie say to Mama in the hospital waiting room, just after my dad died.
"Y'all were always so close," she said, the tears trailing down her face.
"Louise, when you and Odis married, it wasn't like it was two, it was like it was just one. And then, when Bill was born, it was the same thing.
"It wasn't like it was three, it was just one. Y'all just seemed to love each other so much."
I can't think of a better testimony to my dad.
Fantastic writing and I am thrilled with our dads and all 11 siblings! I miss you Uncle Odis!
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