I sometimes wonder if most people are like me. What I mean is do they go along with their lives and at points get broadsided when the truth hits. I know it’s happened to me bunches of time, and I got whacked again just the other day.
For some reason beyond my understanding, I was thinking about my dad. Maybe it was because he died on August 31, 1965. It was an event that stunned all of us in the family in such a way that the scars never quite fade. Years of smoking cigarettes, along with working in a paper mill that mixed a concoction of poisonous chemicals in its processing cardboard, eventually caused the cancer that developed in his lungs.
Daddy was 53 when he died. His mom, who survived him, said he was always a serious person and had expressed the belief that his life would end early. To me, Daddy seemed ancient during that part of my life with him. He worked hard and figured all the time how to stretch tool little money across too much month.
Over the years, Dallas Rector, Sr. smiled to little, he laughed too infrequently, and he never relaxed. We boys were scared of our dad. We loved him, but we feared him. I don’t know why because he rarely raised a hand to us; that was left for Mother to do. Still, he was the man of the house, and perhaps his serious manner led us to believe that he wasn’t someone with whom we wanted to “get sideways.” His growl was much worse than his bite.
The epiphany that came to me recently is that my dad died a young man. He was just past 50. People of his generation have lived into their 70’s and 80’s regularly, and some have reached 90-plus. So, the man we called Daddy was just finishing half his life when he died.
I began to wonder what things went through his mind when he realized that his life was being cut so short. Did he think about what would become of this sons, one 17 and two 13? What plans had he made for this life that was so cut short. Did he have dreams for the future and what were they?
I’m 58, and while my body often feels every day that I’ve lived, my mind continues to tell me that I’m a person in my mid-twenties. I carry more pounds than the doctors say is healthy, and my strength is less than it once was. Still, I approach life every day as if no limit on it existed. I’ve completed one career as a teacher for 30 years, and now I’m on to another one as a newspaper reporter of sorts and author. My title of Dad has been supplemented with an additional one as “P” by grandson Madden. I look forward to the next big thing to come in my life.
I’m now 5 years older than my dad was, and with a little luck, I’ve still got plenty of years left. On the other hand, life is a fragile thing, and sometimes a roll of the dice comes up craps. What I know today that I didn’t for most of my life is that Daddy was a young man who met his end too soon. He lost out on dreams and children and grandchildren and Mother.
Life is a blessing. I’m trying to understand that each day needs to be lived to the fullest. That means not lying down in bed and wishing that I’d done something. Too many times, I carp about the terrible things in my life, and then I remember that lots of people never had the chance to be on this earth as long as I’ve been here. I’m not about to reach perfection, but living life with more appreciation and energy and excitement is something that I hope to do from now on. It’s the best way to remember my dad.
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