What I Wish I'd Told You

Father’s Day, and although you’re celebrating with Mom in a more glorious home, we miss you, not only today, but every day.

If only we could have one more family dinner.

I’d beg you for more family stories.

I’d apologize for all the eye-rolling and sighing when you tried to tell me something I needed to hear. After all, inside I believed you knew everything.

Everything that mattered.

Now that I have children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, I wish we could share coffee and conversation one more time. I have so much to tell you, and so much to thank you for.

I wish I’d told you how much your work ethic and honesty influenced my life. God, family, and country were highest on your list, but you were a faithful GM employee, and taught that attendance was mandatory, and it was expected to give our best on every task.

I wish I’d told you how your love of reading gave my life a richness and sparkle, at every age, under any circumstance. You’d be proud of my stories and writing, I’m sure.

I wish I’d told you how special you made every Christmas and birthday, regardless of finances and number of children. After raising mine, I don’t know how you managed, but was never disappointed. Santa was good to us every year.

We were proud of our young, cultured parents, growing up with classical music, soundtracks, musicals, a grand piano in the living room, and books—our own and weekly library loans, and learned that class and taste could be enjoyed at any income level.

When you retired and took over meal preparation, you made world’s best meatloaf. And peasant soup—“I’ve been chasing peasants all day,” you’d say—English muffin breakfast sandwiches, and any recipe that caught your attention…and cleaned up the kitchen afterward.

You taught us love for nature—forests, ocean shorelines, mountains, hiking, camping, dogs, cats, and wildlife.

I wish I’d told you how proud I was that you never met a stranger, and always showed interest in everyone you came across. Still, you reminded me to use caution in the great wide world, because not everyone had my best interests at heart, or even their own. I envy your lifelong balance of acceptance and vigilance.

Your loyalty to your entire family was unshaking and endless, even though your father had deserted his wife and children when you were in high school, leaving you to help your mother. You stayed the supportive big brother all your life to my aunts and uncles.

I wish I could tell you all this, Dad.

I wish I could hear your voice offering advice.

Or tell you how many times I was helped by your reminders, “When you get sick and tired of being sick and tired, you’ll do something about it,” and “You are always doing the best you can; however, it is up to you to be on the lookout for better bests.”

I wish I could see that Russell family grin again and hear you laugh.

I even miss the snapping of your fingers which meant “Now!”

There’s no way to thank you, in words, for everything you sacrificed, bought, built, tried, and offered. I can only be grateful for what we had and pay it forward.

After all, that’s what you taught me to do.