A Eulogy for Dad

As it turns out, a traditional Catholic funeral doesn't have a eulogy.  Family members can read a few passages from the scriptures but, beyond that, the entire service is handled by the priest.  That being said, I started writing one anyway.  It never quite landed, so it's more of a collection of random thoughts about my Dad.

It has some coarse language because, well, it's my Dad.

If you spent any time with my father, you know at least three things about him:  He drank, he smoked, and he didn't give a shit about what you thought of him.

He taught me how to drink at a relatively young age.  Whenever he popped open a fresh can of beer, he'd offer me a sip.  His rule for drinking was pretty simple at the time:  You couldn't do it before noon and, if you were a kid, you had to drink with him.

Four on the floor, and three behind the door

He had a dedicated beer fridge in the garage and always kept enough on hand to make it through a hurricane.   He called it his "medicine" and occasionally referred to it as "holy water."  He was not shy about administering religious rites to a freshly opened can of beer, often verbalizing the first few lines of The Lord's Prayer, or performing the Sign of the Cross upon it.

As he aged, his relationship with beer changed.  When I was in High School, it was common to have a cooler of beer in the back seat of our car, within easy reach.  His interpretation of the early Open Container laws justified drinking beer at stop lights.  Later, drinking would be mostly confined to our garage table, where he'd listen to Fox News, and keep a watchful eye on everything that happened on Harbor Drive South.


He would sit at that table nearly every day; it was a part of our home as long as I can remember.  I learned to play Dungeons and Dragons at that table; clearing off beer cans and cigarette ash before sitting down with friends for the afternoon.  It was one of Dad's least favorite things - kids taking over his garage to do something other than drink beer.

Our home reeked of cigarettes.  The stink was in my clothes when I went to school.  I honestly have no idea if my mom is a good cook or not; meals in our home always tasted a bit like ash.  Of course, growing up with it was normal - it wasn't until I left for college that I realized not everything had to smell and taste that way.  It was always painful going back home after that, and I mean that in a literal sense - my eyes would burn, and my skin would itch just walking into the house.

That stink; it's something I never thought I'd miss but, as I write this, I ache at its absence.

In spite of his various vices, my Dad was a wise man.  His advice was often blunt and rarely filtered.  When I was young, and he realized I was starting to be interested in girls, he explained the Bird and the Bees in exactly six words:  "A stiff dick has no conscience."

When I was struggling with friends in college, his advice was simply "Men are pigs, and people suck.  If you remember that, you'll never be disappointed and, occasionally, you'll be pleasantly surprised."

He gave advice to whoever asked.  Whether they took it or not was up to them.

What wisdom he had was often masked by the fears and prejudices he carried with him.  His racism was rooted in things I never understood.  He knew good men and women from all walks of life and ethnicities, but always considered them the exception to whatever opinions he had about the group.  This was true for everyone different than him.  All Democrats were stupid, except the ones he knew.  All Mexicans were undeservedly taking our jobs, except the ones he knew.  All blacks were out to get him, except the ones he knew.

If your mind is too open, your brain will fall out. . .

When I started dating Priya, I was certain her ethnicity would be a challenge for him.  Prior to their meeting, I spoke with him to give him advanced notice and bolstered myself for the backlash.  When I revealed she and her family were Indian, his response was a terse "So?" as if bringing it up was completely inconsequential.  As I explained I wanted to give him a heads up, because he was prejudice he shook his head and explained, "David, I'm not prejudiced, I'm a racist," as if that explained anything at all.

Whether intentional or not, his speech was somewhat coded, and I could always tell what mattered by the words that he chose.  When discussing something important to him, he would always call me "son."  If it was something he felt should be important to me, he'd call me "David."  If one of us was full of crap and we both knew it, I was "buddy."

Along with his body, his mind had begun to betray him in recent years.  In August, he spent a few weeks with us in Georgia as he recovered from surgery.  He would occasionally speak of his mental struggles.  Organizational skills that he prided himself on were failing him.  His vocabulary was diminishing.  It wasn't constant, and I think that's what pained him most - he clearly understood and recognized when his mind was not cooperating with him.  They were moments of fear and helplessness expressed by a man who had always been, for me, larger than life.

Dad always did his best to take care of my mother.   I won't suggest they had a perfect marriage or relationship, and I witnessed their struggles throughout my youth.  Regardless of the challenges, though, they always strived to take care of one another.

Relationships were important to him, and he invested in them fully.  When Priya and I became engaged, he was quick to support her as we prepared for the wedding.  She became a daughter to him the moment they met, and he was forever loyal to her.  It was not uncommon for him to call me to make sure I was taking care of Priya, and treating her properly.  He would always spend time reminding me of what a wonderful person she is.

My parents' home was always open to visitors; family from around the country seemed to constantly flow in and out of 404 Harbor Drive South.  Each summer my parents would plan a trek to Canada, stopping to see friends and family along the way.  They invested in their relationships in ways I never really appreciated.

In the end, he died mostly alone, in a new apartment he and my mom had yet to really feel at home in.  I'm confident he knew we all loved him, though; and I'm confident he was certain we knew how much he loved all of us.  "I love you" was one phrase he uttered more often than anything else I can remember in his life.  It was how he ended every conversation with me. Every voicemail, every card or letter.  It was, quite literally, the last thing he said to me.

Ultimately, I think he lived just long enough to make sure mom was comfortable in her new home and had the friends and support she needed to go on without him.  His body was spent years before that.  His mind had become an unreliable tool.  But his love for her kept him on this earth just long enough to see his responsibilities through.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about my Dad.  There were times in my life when I dreaded calling him because I knew a lecture was coming.  There were times when he'd call, and I'd hesitate to pick up the phone because I knew I'd spend the next hour listening to Fox News talking points while I helped him resolve whatever computer issue he was having.  Those opportunities are gone now, and I'm left with only memories.

I recognize that he was a deeply flawed man.  I would never present some alternate view of who he was.  He wouldn't have wanted that.  If you're reading this, you might be inclined to wish you had known him better, or differently.  You might, like me, wish you had more time to spend with him.

With that in mind, I'll close with the phrase he uttered almost as often as "I love you."  It was his way of saying it was time to move on, time to forget one option and explore another.  It was the crassest of shrugs, and I have heard it too many times to ever forget.

"Wish in one hand and shit in the other, then tell me which one gets full faster."

My Father's Passing

A Tiny 82nd Birthday Anniversary Celebration

My father died on Tuesday, September 13th.  It was twelve days after his 82nd Birthday Anniversary, and thirty-seven days shy of his 60th Wedding Anniversary.  I heard the news at 9:10a. . .a 43 second phone call.  I was returning my brother’s call; his wife Kelly answered the phone.  I don’t remember what she said; she was crying, and that was enough to know what had happened.  I could hear my brother sobbing in the background as I hung up the phone.

I wish I could say the rest of the week was a blur, like that phone call.  In truth it was mostly focusing on practical things - scheduling time off from work, and making sure any projects were being handled.  Determining where to stay while we attended the services.  Any detail was worth focusing on if it could cast a shroud over those 43 seconds, and our family’s reality.

On Sunday, September 18th - sixteen days after I last saw my father, we attended the Viewing.  Holding my Mom as she leaned over to kiss my father one last time.  Her weathered hands rubbing his gently, as if she was trying to restore some semblance of warmth to his fingers.  Hugging my wife Priya when she said her good-byes.

Three Shells - Duty, Honor, Country

Eventually, the tears turned to stories.  Ordinary stories about Dad, made grand by his passing.  Some conversations seemed apropos of nothing - talk of hair styles or dresses; my aunt talking about a recent visit to the hospital.  For a moment it felt like a poorly catered cocktail party, with my father’s body on display.  But then I remembered how I grieved in those first few days - focusing on any random detail to hide from our situation.

I spent a great deal of time standing by his side.  He was dressed in his Air Force Blues, resting in a casket he had picked out for himself a decade earlier.  The inside lid of the coffin had three birds in flight, set against a light blue background, with the words “Going Home” embroidered upon it.  A folded flag was by his head, and his medals were resting against the opened lid.

It was the last time I would actually see him; what would remain are photographs, videos, and memories.

The funeral mass was held at St. Jerome’s; my parents' church for as long as I can remember.  Beyond our extended family, his fellow Ushers were in attendance.  Having been raised Catholic, it was an oddly familiar ritual; the incense, the repetition of prayers.  The only peace I found there was the knowledge that it was all proceeding exactly as my Dad wanted.  He was not a perfect Catholic, and his humor often bordered on the heretical, but he was forever devout.

At the graveside, I was seated directly in front of his casket, my Mom on my left and Priya on my right.  A short bit away stood the rifle team, preparing to fire their three volleys.  Shots were fired; arms were presented.  And then they played Taps.

I’ve only ever experienced Taps on television, or in the movies.  The camera slowly panning across a mournful crowd.  It was different in the flesh.  More hollow; more final.

Words were said.  A young man and woman, dressed in Air Force Blues, prepared the flag that adorned my father’s casket; folding it with precision and presenting it to my mother “on behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation.”

On behalf of the President of the United States. . .

Each of the family members placed flowers on Dad’s casket, and we retreated to the funeral home as the burial workers attended to the practicalities of setting my father in his final resting place.   I have no idea why the services stopped short of him being lowered into the grave.  Perhaps it was simple pragmatics related to the burial site.  Perhaps it was my father’s wishes.  When they first began leading us away I wanted to argue; to stand firm to witness the very end.  But I kept my rage quiet, and simply walked to the open grave to peer in.  My brother joined me and we commented on the workmanship of the grave before rejoining the procession.

The rest of the day was filled with more stories, told over tears and laughter.  Ultimately, the shared experiences all struck the same message; Dad was a gruff, violently opinionated curmudgeon that would move heaven and earth to help family or friends.

Church and Politics

On November 5th an "Open Letter" was sent to a sort of IT Alumni mailing list I am on. It was pretty straight forward (edited for politeness):

Subject: An open letter to Mr. Dave Lopata

F* you, and f* your church.

A*hole.

I confess when I first read it I wasn't sure what it was about.  In fact, the guy that sent it is someone I consider to be a profound A-hole, so at first I thought he was actually signing his name that way for the first time.  But then a flurry of other email and news reports started popping up about how my Church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had encouraged (and potentially contributed in-kind donations) to support the California Proposition 8 legislation.

Oh.  Joy.

First, let me just say this - if you think the LDS Church has enough clout in CA  to get 5.4 million people to do anything, you're kidding yourself.  There are about 800,000 LDS members on the books in CA.  If you assume about 40% of them are active members (which seems high to me - world wide activity levels are around 35%), you're talking about 320,000 folks who are actually concerned about what the First Presidency of our Church says.

So, I'm not about to sit here and believe the LDS Church is responsible for the outcome of the CA vote.  Obviously, there are the monetary contributions to consider.  Sites like Mormons For Proposition 8 appear to be doing a good job collecting data around the actual percentages of donations, but at the end of the day, over 5 million non-LDS Californians felt compelled to vote to stifle various legal rights of their fellow citizens.

Since I've always considered California voters to be rather stupid, I'm not sure why this is surprising to anyone.

As for myself, in an ideal world there would be no legal requirement to define what a "marriage" is. . .If you look to things like the Fair Tax, and some common sense modifications to things like inheritance laws, it seems fairly simple to remove the need for the government to record or define any union between two (or more) consenting adults.

I also realize that will never happen.

So, if we have to define "marriage" for legal reasons, what makes sense?  I'm a huge fan of The People keeping as much of their money as possible.  I'm also a huge fan of the Government staying the heck out of The People's lives.  So, logically, I'm for the most relaxed legal definition of marriage because it affords the greatest percentage of The People the opportunity to keep more of their money and more of their freedom.

 As an LDS member, I understand that we consider marriage to be between a  man and a woman.  We even published a very nice Proclamation to the World stating the Church's opinion on the matter.  Note that the  proclamation doesn't speak at all about what tax breaks we feel a married couple should get, what property inheritance rules should be followed, or what insurance benefits they should get.  I'm pretty sure those omissions were inspired.

It does have this interesting line, however:

We call upon responsible citizens and officers of government everywhere to promote those measures designed to maintain and strengthen the family as the fundamental unit of society.

Perhaps this is seen as justification for supporting Proposition 8.  Personally, I don't see it that way.  Proposition 8 does nothing to maintain and strengthen the family as a fundamental unit of society.  Anyone supporting it because of that is, in my opinion, kidding themselves.  The definition of "marriage" under state laws is not a moral issue, it is a financial one.

Additionally, the whole idea of voting to curtail a behavior of another person when that behavior is not harming your life, liberty, or property, seems contrary to the notion of Free Agency, which is really what life here is all about.

Phoenix Games in Buford, GA (For Stewie)

About a year ago, my family and I wandered in to the Games Workshop store in the Mall of Georgia.  It's situated right across from the Apple Store, and because my boys had recently started playing the Heroscape boardgame, we thought that looking into Warhammer might be fun.  On our first visit in we met Alan, who gave us a quick tour of the 40k game, and answered some of the questions my oldest son had.  He did a good job of explaining the story line of the game with detail and enthusiasm, and helped capture my son's imagination.  We went back in a few times, eventually meeting Matt and Ken as well, and picked up the "starter set" for Warhammer 40k.

Whenever we had questions about the rules, or wanted suggestions on how to get more out of the game, Alan, Matt, and particularly Ken were extremely helpful.  They never pressured us into buying anything, but were always very helpful and enthusiastic about our interest in the game.  As we finished our first set of models, my eldest son and I brought them into the store and Ken walked us through the setup of a full game, and helped us with rule interpretations, tactics, etc.  It was a lot of fun, and they were always very welcoming.  

The space at the GW store is rather small, though, so it was sometimes difficult to get around while folks were playing games, and sometimes it felt like you were always bumping into someone.  As a parent who usually had a couple of kids in tow, I always felt particularly guilty about that, because, well, kids bump into people - it's part of who they are.  Of course, everyone in the store (employees and customers) were always very friendly towards me and the kids, but it was hard not to feel claustrophobic on days when it was really crowded.

In August we learned that Ken & Matt were going to be leaving Games Workshop to launch their own store a couple of miles away and Alan would also be joining them at the new site.  They wanted to build a store that could foster a real gaming community in the area, and were branching out beyond Games Workshop products.  Since we first heard about that, we've been waiting with great anticipation.

This Saturday was the grand opening of their store, Phoenix Games, here in Buford, GA.  As I mentioned, we've been looking forward to this day back in August, so the boys and I wanted to be there for the official Grand Opening to show our support and have some fun.  So we packed up all our miniatures, rule books and dice and headed to the new store.

We "sorta" arrived in time to be first in line.  A lot of the long-time customers from the GW Store are, of course, good friends with Ken, Matt, and Alan, so they've been helping get the store up and running for the last month, and have been doing work behind the scenes since.  So, we were the first in line for the Grand Opening, but several folks had been in the store most of the morning helping with the setup.  About 10 minutes before the official opening, everyone in the store cleared out and waited in line.  I had warned my boys that the other folks had really been there first, and prepared them to concede their first and second place spots when the other folks came out.  We left enough room between us and the door for them stand in front of us but everyone was kind enough to let my boys stand up front while they assembled at the back of the line.  I imagine, as seasoned gamers who had been in and out of the store for a few weeks, it wasn't that big of a deal to them, but for my two boys it was really awesome, so I'm really grateful for the treatment we received.  My oldest was the first through the door, and my youngest quickly followed him.

The store is setup to allow customers to buy products for and enjoy every aspect of the hobby.  The front of the store is dedicated to retail space with two small tables setup to give demonstration games to new hobbyists.  They also have a "Mess" table up front where folks can  sand and assemble models they've brought in or purchased, or even work on scratch build projects like Terrain, etc.  It's a neat aspect of the store because you can buy something and immediately get help assembling the models.  Also, there are a lot of in-process projects on the table, so you can see some of the creative work that other folks are working on.

In the center of the store is a large paint table that surrounds the employee area.  It seats about a dozen people in comfortable stools.  Because it's a wrap-around setup, Ken and crew can work inside the area, ringing up customers, etc, but can also sit across from a hobbyist to help them with painting instruction without inconveniencing anyone, or just sit and chat.  The store, literally, has no place for the employees to hide, unless they camp out in the bathrooms, so it's a very open and welcoming environment.

The vast majority of the store is dedicated to gaming space.  They have a dozen or so full sized tables (4x8) that can be used to play games.  They're all on wheels, so they can be moved around as needed, but there's enough space that you can enjoy a game without worrying about bothering the person next to you.

The floor is painted concrete, which lets them allow food and drinks in the store without having to worry about carpet stains or what not.  As a customer with kids, it's a huge relief, though you definitely want to be wearing comfortable shoes if you're planning on standing next to a table all day (I understand they've got some stools coming for the gaming tables; right now all the stools are at the painting station).  They have bathrooms, a cooler for buying drinks, and a utility sink in the back for cleaning your stuff.

When we first arrived, my oldest son and I wanted to finally sit down and figure out the real point values of our Armies (up until now we've mainly just put "everything we have" on the table), so Ken gave us a demo of some Army Builder software and let my son play around with it for a while.  After we sorted all that out, my youngest sat down to do some painting while my oldest and I started a battle on one of the many tables.  We played our first 1000 point battle.  My son set up the terrain, using a set of cliffs we had built a few months back as the center piece of the battlefield.  He setup for looks, not strategic advantage, so my Tyranids ended up crushing his Tau in the end. Another Tyranid gamer (alas, I also forget his name ; I'm really bad with names) watched most of our game, and helped us with the rules along the way, explaining certain tactics and rules for both armies - he was extremely helpful (and patient).  It was like that most of the day - people would stop by the table to watch, introduce themselves, point out tactics or comment on the general state of the game, and then wander around the rest of the store to check out the other games that were going on.

 

Most everyone there knows each other, except for us - we're pretty much the Newbies in the house.  We ended up staying about 6 hours - my oldest and I got to play our full game, and browse through a lot of the product that was out.  My youngest painted half a dozen Tyranids, and also bought some Necrons and started to assemble some of them on the Mess table. 

The one thing we forgot to do was eat; there are lots of restaurants around the store, but we were pretty well immersed in the activities, so it wasn't until we were packed up that we realized we were starving.  The Phoenix guys had T-shirts and dog tags for everyone who showed up for the Grand Opening, so we had a full day of fun, and got some cool stuff as well.

Their stock is still coming in slowly - they had a lot of the Flames of War stuff, and almost all the newly released GW product.  The rest is supposed to be coming in over the next few days.  We did manage to pick up a new set of Necron Warriors for my youngest, plus some Ork Lootas and the new Space Marine codex.

If you're anywhere in the Metro Atlanta area, it's definitely worth the trip up to Buford, particularly if you're new to War Gaming and are looking for a non-threatening atmosphere to figure it all out.  The guys at Phoenix are extremely friendly and really know their stuff.  I should mention that Matt's a rather tall and intimidating looking fellow that sort of looks like he could crush your head pretty easily. . .My youngest son is somewhat afraid of him. . . But he's a nice guy and, to my knowledge, hasn't crushed anyone's head since I've been learning the game.