Stories of my Dad

Stories of My Dad

(Erin Merritt)

I sat down to write my father’s obituary, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t put in even a quarter of his professional accomplishments—which all involved words like “changed the way we all” and “convinced against all odds” and “saved from the wrecking ball the now-hip such-and-such” and “coined the term…” I mean, the facts are never the person, but in my dad’s case… even as impressive as they are, they’re more about his passion and no-nonsense attitude than any ambition whatsoever. He marched to the beat of his own violin, and maybe no one else could figure out how to march to a violin, but he sure did make it look fun enough that we all wanted to try. He could have been a Tom Sawyer, making us all paint the fence for him, but instead, he noticed old ladies who couldn’t afford to keep up their houses and led teams to completely refurbish them so they couldn’t be torn down for a freeway. That’s the kind of guy he was—a hero to the “little people” and a total pain in the ass to the people in power. And yes, he did it because it was the right thing to do, but I have to say he didn’t forget to have a damned good time doing it. It’s entirely his fault that I am unable to work in a field that pays well—it was so clear that work was meant to be its own reward—and that I can’t repress my need to work only where and how my passion leads me—he always seemed completely free—even untamable—while at work. Once when I asked him what he had done in the Planning Department in Pasadena when I was a little kid, he told me he looked at plans that came in to build awful things and rooted around until he found some way to thwart those plans. I have zero doubt that he followed the law to the letter, but the joy was in finding that letter that let him redirect power back to the people.

But obits can’t be that long and shouldn’t be that gleefully revengeful, so I tried to stick to what might matter to others. My mother wanted me to get across how devoted he was to his family; my sister wanted me to spell out how much he cherished my Mom; and I did want people to know that unexpectedly gentle side of a man I generally picture in mid-grimace of glee, a la Animal (who was of course one of his favorite Muppets, because my dad did know all the Muppets and did play favorites). Though we never doubted it for a moment, we grew up with him never voicing the words “I love you” in our presence—I actually picked up the phone right in front of him when I heard him on another line saying almost resignedly, “Well, she’s my daughter, and I love her” about my sister once. I reached her and told her right in front of him what he had said. He demonstrated his love by spending hours on the floor playing with us when we were wee bairns, by reading to us (his “Large and Growly Bear” was a national treasure of such sensitive performance it should have been made available to all the world’s children) and most of all by listening to us, no matter how old or young, how happy the news or how awful. And yet in later life, he became straight up cuddly, very affectionate. He wasn’t always graceful at it, but never anything less than heart felt; he moved beyond his training, I guess, because it mattered to him. So yes, of course, we have to pay homage to that, but at the cost of trying to paint a picture of him digging up a weed and yelling at it “Booooooooo!!!!” before throwing it away? Can that even be painted? “Boooooooo!” like he was at the ballpark, face to face with a player for the team he called the Giant Sucks. That’s love too. Enlisting my children to enjoy weeding by making it a rooting event in more ways than one. Making hard work irresistible fun.

So... since obituaries can't contain ramblings like these let alone stories, I'm writing some down here. Join me. Send your stories and I'll enter them as posts. You can enter them in the comments or email them to me at erinmerritt1@gmail.com (please note the "1" at the end of my name)