Farewell Summer…Farewell, Dad

About this time last year I sat beneath the shade of a tree in my front yard and devoured Ray Bradbury’s long awaited Farewell Summer (sequel to his outrageously popular Dandelion Wine).  It is a beautiful book–an allegory about youth and aging, life and death, and the passing seasons.

I called my father later that day.  “Hey, dad,” I said, “I think you’ll really enjoy this book.”  I am a book lover and often get too enthusiastic about sharing them with other people.  My father, quite a reader himself, didn’t always enjoy the same things I did but would sometimes humor me by reading one of my recommendations.

On a warm evening a couple of weeks later, my cell phone buzzed.  I squinted at the little screen: my brother, Isaac, calling.  We didn’t talk often–usually exchanged text messages a couple times per week.

“Hello?” I said.
“Hey, Jake,” he said and silence stretched out between us for several long seconds.
“How are you doing, Isaac?”
“Ah, man… brother… Dad died,” he said finally.

The roof and walls seemed to collapse around me in that moment.  I felt as if I had somersaulted into outer space–blind-folded…all the oxygen squeezed from my body.  How could this be?  Last time I talked with him, my father seemed healthy and more peaceful than ever.

But it was.  Like a window suddenly slamming shut on a clear late-summer sunset, my father was gone.

The next few days blurred past on fast-forward.  My wife and I flew back to Idaho and sat with my grieving family.  Together we visited dad’s little cottage–the unfinished project-house he had lived in for several years.

Like my father’s life, this house had been a source of major frustration for him.  He was a fine craftsman–an artist, really–and his sense of perfection drove him to tear everything down to the studs.  Not satisfied with a respectable veneer, my Dad struggled hard with life.  The answers which brought comfort to most men did nothing for him.  Making a living, owning fine things, being a popular person–none of these were his top priorities.  Sometimes his own lack of material ambition bothered him.  I could see that as I walked through his house for the last time.  He had short motivational notes taped to the mirror and the refrigerator.  For the first time I finally understood how hard he had to work at life–things most would take for granted didn’t come easily to my father.

After spending time in his bedroom, looking at his stacks of books and a vase of dried lavendar, I wandered into the kitchen.  The counters were covered with sawdust and tools.  On a chair, I saw his backpack–the same one he used to bring with him when he stayed overnight at my house.  Unzipping it, I pulled out a towel and noticed a book packed in between his folded clothes and shaving kit.

I tugged it free and turned it over.  Farewell Summer lay there in my hands.  I took a deep breath and straightened up.  For just a moment sure I felt Dad’s arm around my shoulders, I let the tears fall where they may.  How absolutely fitting was it that he and I shared this book?  The last one he ever read spoke of life’s beauty, of acceptance, of inevitable change and of death.

One year later, I write these words filled with gratitude for the many lessons my father taught during our time together.  Like seeds dormant until their time has come, these realizations continue to sprout in surprising ways.

I learned from him that Life is, Itself, the deepest meditation, the highest art, the grandest journey…

So, farewell summer…farewell, Dad.  I loved our season together.