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I've decided to switch gears a bit from the serious tone of recent life lessons, and instead, focus on some fun Christmas memories. One incredible memory, which was a generational tradition on my dad's side of the family, was dad dressing up and playing Santa for kids. Now I'm not talking about the department store Santas you see all the time. Dad did this, like he does everything, above and beyond what you would expect.
The process of getting dressed, with the wigs and makeup, (gotta have those rosy cheeks), took him hours. Of course, Mom was essential in this metamorphosis. Dad's suit wasn't that bright Christmas red you're used to seeing on Santa. Instead, it was a deeper, richer red. Like a dark burgundy. This added to the uniqueness of his presentation. He had a professional wig for his hair, and the beard was amazing. They'd touch up his eyebrows to make them nice and white.
One of my favorite unique details he came up with was his way of capturing that very first moment at the front door. After getting out of the car, usually a couple blocks from the house, Mom would cover his shoulders with a dusting of shaved ice. He would arrange it with the families that when he arrived, the child or children would be right at the door when it opened. As the door swung open, there was Santa on their porch brushing "North Pole snow" from his shoulders. In fact, he even would get a little on the kids so they could have that added thrill of being sprinkled with snow. Hey, we lived in the Bay Area of California. Most kids have never even seen snow in person.
I could go into more details, but this would take you an hour to read it if I did.
One of the things I appreciate about my dad, and of my parents as a unit, is that they have always done things above and beyond what others would do, and what others would be satisfied with. That attitude has been a tremendous influence to me. This is one reason why just about everyone they've ever known has gotten attached to them. They have always loved and given so freely. And I mean freely literally. People would ask my dad how much he would charge or accept for his Santa appearances. With as much seriousness and conviction as one could imagine, he would adamantly refuse to accept money or anything in exchange for what he did. My parents understood the unmatchable reward in just making people, and especially children, happy. Dad did his Santa in prisons, children's hospitals, for the elderly, churches, living rooms...you name it.
He simply loves blessing people. All people.
Christmas is known as the season of giving. I hope that never goes away. But I'm proud to have had parents who simply lived their lives this way, year in and year out, no matter what the calendar said. I'm thankful that I was raised by people who were not satisfied by the status quo. Why stop at the place where everyone else does? Why stop at "that'll do"? With a little imagination, and with a huge heart, you can do so much more.
Mom is gone now, but I'm so grateful my dad is still with us. He is truly a legend in my eyes. There just aren't many like him in this world anymore.
Yesterday was an interesting day, and I'm thankful to say that's all it was. It had the potential to be devastating, so I'll take interesting anytime.
I got a call from an unfamiliar phone yesterday at 8:50 AM. It was my dad. Recognizing his voice, but not the number, triggered what I think is an understandable inquiry:
"where are you?"
I wasn't even remotely prepared for his answer.
"I'm in Methodist Hospital."
It took a couple of seconds of suspended animation for me to absorb those words into my brain. My heart intercepted the message and immediately sent a tsunami of emotions throughout the maze of muscles, bone, veins, ligaments, organs and anything else encased by my skin. Then the message finally reached my brain for processing.
About 1:30 AM Wednesday morning, he woke up with chest pains. Like a true former Marine and retired San Francisco cop, he chose to power through it for 90 minutes. It was only at 3:00 AM, when he felt his left arm growing eerily weak, and when he felt very light headed, that his will broke down and he called 911.
Within minutes, paramedics arrived at his door. They had been pulled from the scene of a fire to tend to my dad. Three medics came in to his house. Here's my dad, 3 AM, chest pains for an hour and a half, and he has the presence of mind to notice that one of the three paramedics is tracking soot from the fire scene onto his carpet. He wasn't rude about it. It's his way of diminishing the severity of the moment.
Dad is the Grand Poobah of the "I Hate Attention" society. So when the ambulance pulled up to his house, with the siren blaring and lights announcing to the entire neighborhood that there's something going down at his house...at 3 AM, he was very embarrassed.
Now back to the 8:50 AM phone call. He wasn't calling to let me know so I could come down and visit him. He was calling because he had no other way to take care of some very important personal business.
He had an appointment for the next morning with the barber that he was going to have to cancel. He didn't have his phone number, so I had to go to his house and get the number for him.
That's why he called!
Anyone who doesn't truly know my dad might be offended by that. Anyone who does know my dad is probably laughing. As I wrote about last year on his birthday, my dad is a man's man. Independent. Tough. An emotional rock. Bullet proof. But 73 years of a clean, well-lived life can get even the very best of us. We are all having to come to terms with the absurd fact that he, in fact, is not bullet proof. Now he needs to realize that despite the loss of my mom, there is still a number of people who love him dearly and want need to know when he's ailing. I think he understands that better today than he did yesterday.
As I've been writing this, I've gotten two phone calls from him. In the first, he said it didn't look like he was going to be released today. He sounded dejected. The second call, just 10 minutes later was after his doctor came to see him. It looks like he will be released today, after all. He was very happy about that.
One last observation before I wrap up this post for the day. I think this will give you some insight into the discipline and character of this amazing man. After he called 911 and he knew that he was going to be taken from the house and not returning to bed, with an accelerated heartbeat of over 130 beats per minute, a weakening left arm, light headedness...the man made his bed. If the Queen of England were coming to my house, I'm not sure I'd make my bed.
Just got a third phone call. He has been in bed for pretty much 30 hours straight with a terminal case of bed head. He wants me to bring him a hat for when he's discharged.
Such a diva.
Yes, 5 days following my mom's birthday, there is my dad's. She's a cradlerobber, ya know.
My dad is, and was a man's man. He was born in San Francisco in 1935, so his family story is very similar to the one you've heard many times over about being born to immigrant parents trying to provide for their family in a new country during the Great Depression and World War II. My dad had to work in his father's butcher shop from a very young age. When he was of age, he joined the Marines. Even when he was young, he was something of a thrill-seeker. So joining the Marines seemed like a pretty good fit for young men who live life to extremes.
Moving ahead to his post-military career, he was a police detective in San Francisco for more than 20 years. One interesting story which will tell you a little something about his mindset versus that of the average, normal-thinking individual, is when he saw the office memo advertising the creation of a new task force; the bomb squad. My dad happened to work in the building in which he would need to apply, so he sprinted up several flights of stairs while the memo was still floating to the ground in his wake. He was certain there would be a line of guys jumping on this fantastic opportunity. When he arrived at the appropriate office, there was one person in the office to welcome my sweating, out-of-breath father.
"Why are you out of breath?"
"I wanted to apply for the bomb squad, and I knew there would be a crowd. Am I too late?"
"Crowd? Nobody wants this job. You're the only one who has contacted us."
Typical of my dad. He has always seen the world pretty clearly through his own lens, and doesn't understand that others can't see what he sees.
As I mentioned the other day when speaking of my mom, she was the type who loved to serve people. I honestly don't recall my dad ever being in the kitchen to even make himself a sandwich. Mom took care of everything. He worked hard. He had a very demanding job which weighed on him mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually.
In 1982, my dad made a significant decision which would alter his life, and all those who he has come to know since. He became a Christian. I was 17 years old at the time, so I figured this was just an older person who wanted to get into Heaven. But in reality, things wouldn't change. I was wrong.
Way wrong.
The very same man who never had to pour his own glass of iced tea or do a load of laundry, has since become, who I call, the male Martha Stewart. I am skipping a million details so this doesn't turn into the Moby Dick of blog posts, but the man I know today is light years from the man I knew growing up. No better or worse. Just changed. He is the most generous and compassionate man I know. Very highly principled, but not at the expense of his dignity, or that of others. Due to my mom's illness, he has assumed all duties required to maintain a home. He is the cook, the maid, the nurse, the accountant...all while maintaining his tangible masculinity. My mother is his life. He takes such incredible care of her. She couldn't be in better hands. She adores him, and needs him like never before.
He is a true hero and role model. I'm fortunate and blessed to have such an example in my life. I don't know that I could ever equal the man he is, but I certainly will do well to try.
Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. After all, no one ever hated his own body, but he feeds and cares for it, just as Christ does the church—for we are members of his body. "For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh." This is a profound mystery—but I am talking about Christ and the church. However, each one of you also must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.
~Ephesians 5:25-33
