My dad would have turned 89 years old today. But he died 4 months ago. A quiet passing. No noise. No trembling. For Alzheimer’s and strokes took his words, his memory, and his abilities. I lost him in increments over two years.
We said goodbye to him in a beautiful historic church where he attended parish school in the 1940s. It was a circle from youth to his farewell.
Humorous and heartfelt. These are the kinds of memories I will carry with me about my dad, Don Beckley.
My dad began working as a caddy at age nine, even caddying for some famous golfers, like Ben Hogan. In the Navy my dad had been a teleman and loved to tell the story of how he braved Hurricane Hazel in North Carolina in the 1950s for three days alone as the only sailor on base to manage communications throughout the storm.
Don liked to have fun! Whether it was body surfing 30-foot waves in Hawaii in his fifties or white water rafting down insane rapids in his sixties.
He skillfully commanded the dance floor at any age—even roller skate dancing. On Saturday afternoons when I was a kid, he’d take me to the roller rink and bop and twirl about the floor like crazy.
My dad liked driving fast! He often had two speeding tickets on record at any given time—just one away from losing his license. He loved to “deep six” slow-pees, as he called slow drivers. Deep Six being a Navy term for getting rid of something. He’d avoid these slow-pees by deep-sixing them with racing down side roads to pass them and then whoop with victory.
We had many fishing trips as a family. When I was seven, my dad bought me my first tackle box and took me out in his Boston Whaler on our local lake. He made sure I got my first fish, grinding his boat up against a boulder just so I could reel in that pike.
Known for being frugal, my dad knew how to travel Europe on the cheap. In Spain one year when I was a child, we got a great hotel deal in “the red-light district”. I accidentally dropped my wooden soldier out the window of the top floor. My dad headed down to the street to retrieve it—and got propositioned twice on the way back up. I still have that wooden soldier, missing half a leg from that fall.
Being adopted, my dad called me his “chosen child”. He and my mom were to adopt twin boys but upon arrival at the adoption agency discovered at the last minute the twins weren’t available. My mom asked, “Well, what else do you got?” They had only me. I often wonder what kind of dad I would have ended up with if those twin boys hadn’t been “off the market” that day.
One of my dad’s joys before he retired was his 1965 MGB convertible. We’d cruise up and down the hill towns of Upstate New York in that bright red car, which would overheat on a summer day going up a big hill. Didn’t matter. We’d let it cool off and fly on again down the backroads, eventually ending up windblown and sunburned at some diner.
My dad shared with me several life regrets. Like going for his dream of becoming a Navy pilot, getting nominated to the U.S. Naval Academy—then turning it down because he couldn’t pass the vision exam to fly. Like when his other dream of owning our campground failed because the previous owner duped him. Like finding himself laid off at fifty-five years old and forced to go into business for himself.
I know I gave him a lot of gray hair as a strong-willed child. He endured my calamities and mishaps. Amazingly, he never judged. He was my safe haven. He was my home. He was unconditionally there for me.
For instance, when our son was young, my husband and I were both laid off. Times were truly desperate. I finally had to ask my dad for money to help us get by, even though I hated to do that. He was retired and living on a fixed income. When I told him our situation and asked for money, he doubled it and said, “How does this amount sound?” I started crying and said, “I’m sorry Dad to ask you for this.” And he just said in his quiet way. “It’s okay. That’s what dad’s do.”
That’s what dads do.
And he did.
A fun fact about my dad. He was a very serious card player. None could win against him at Hearts, and he was notorious for “shooting the moon!”
And like his card playing, my dad was very serious about croquet. He had a cutthroat knack for gleefully “knocking your ball into oblivion.”
One of my dad’s favorite roles later in life was being a grandfather to Joshua. He was a special Grampy.
The kind that took you kayaking and fishing. Got down on the floor and played games. Patiently taught you golf.
The kind of Grampy to take his grandson out in his golf cart “cruising for chicks” (his words, not mine!).
Oh, and my dad loved the ladies. When I moved my dad into his assisted living facility, the ladies fell for those bright blue eyes and sassy wit. They nicknamed him Don Juan. Yep, he had a reputation until the end. One Halloween, the facility director was dressed up like a Disney queen. My Dad leaned into her and said without missing a beat, “Whoa, can I take you home to Mama?”
My dad found love later in life after my mom died, traveling with his partner and a group of friends around the country—and the world. His last years of good health were spent full of parties, pickle ball, golf, vacations, and hanging at the beach.
I think my dad would say he had a pretty good life. He had love. He took risks. He had adventures. And oh, he had stories to tell! I hope we can all say the same.
I’m sure he’s kicking it up now in the high life along new travels, making new stories. And that makes me smile.
I’ll let Pink say it better in “When I Get There”, an ode to her dad who passed, too.
Cheers, Dad. I hope you shoot the moon with a good beer in your favorite chair.
We all must let go eventually.
Tharp also writes that “skill is how you close the gap between what you see in your mind’s eye and what you can produce.” And that is what letting go in writing is–closing the gap between a new idea and a refined one.
