It's weekend before Memorial Day.
Generally my dad’s birthday – May 23 - brings me to Fort Snelling National Cemetery where he is buried. Molly usually comes with me. We buy flowers, look around the grave plots for an empty container to “reuse” for our annual memorial that we place next to my dad’s tombstone.
Charles W. “Bill” Derrick, his white stone, in a sea of white markers stands sentry over his place of rest. He had heart issues, and his third major heart attack, got him. I understand he just came home from a round of golf, sat in his chair, and he was gone. That's it!
Generally my dad’s birthday – May 23 - brings me to Fort Snelling National Cemetery where he is buried. Molly usually comes with me. We buy flowers, look around the grave plots for an empty container to “reuse” for our annual memorial that we place next to my dad’s tombstone.
Charles W. “Bill” Derrick, his white stone, in a sea of white markers stands sentry over his place of rest. He had heart issues, and his third major heart attack, got him. I understand he just came home from a round of golf, sat in his chair, and he was gone. That's it!
I didn't know my dad very well. He didn't share much about himself ... if you'd ask him a question, his response would be a joke. I swear I believed, and maybe still believe, that our roots go back to "Blackfoot Indians." He was a very likeable guy, but you couldn't get close to him. I think he only called me by my name no more that 10 times in my life ... he just never called me anything.
Anyway, for Molly and me it's the same every year on Memorial Day. We say “hi” to grandpa. I thank him for watching over my sons during the past year. (Molly has her own angel). And then I tell grandpa stories. She never really knew her grandfather. She was too young to have sat by his side as he sang country-western music while stumming the "guitar or playing the accordian. She never received one of his "momentos" that he would quickly disperse to Chris and Nick as we were leaving. That coconut monkey, golf trophy or wood carving from some trinket store bought during one of his travels, sure carry new meaning now that he is gone.
My stories are always the same. You see, my memories of my father have faded. Does time do that to us? Make it so there are only certain times, people and events that we can recall? Scary to think about, that down the road, I will be just a few memories to my children …. maybe a song, maybe a vacation we took together, maybe my favorite food that they hated but I made them eat.
My dad loved to have fun. I mean he REALLY loved a good time. But these are grandpa stories for another Memorial Day weekend.
Today, I am writing about my trip to his past, his father’s and his grandfather’s home. As little as I know about my father, I know even less about his father, uncles, grandfather, mother, grandmother. No one talked about them .... there are very, very few photos.
My stories are always the same. You see, my memories of my father have faded. Does time do that to us? Make it so there are only certain times, people and events that we can recall? Scary to think about, that down the road, I will be just a few memories to my children …. maybe a song, maybe a vacation we took together, maybe my favorite food that they hated but I made them eat.
My dad loved to have fun. I mean he REALLY loved a good time. But these are grandpa stories for another Memorial Day weekend.
Today, I am writing about my trip to his past, his father’s and his grandfather’s home. As little as I know about my father, I know even less about his father, uncles, grandfather, mother, grandmother. No one talked about them .... there are very, very few photos.
So it's off to Calumet and Lake Linden Michigan to my roots.
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