Twenty-one years ago today my father died, and if you will, indulge me whilst I bare my soul this day.
Not too long ago, while discussing the passing of a mutual friend’s parent, another friend explained how he could not begin to fathom why the majority of people focus on the date of a loved one’s passing.
As I recalled April 15, 1994 in Walking Tall (Chapter 8 Death of a Salesman), ” … in my mind’s eye, an enormous set of red Austrian curtains slowly closed, followed by a giant steel garage door rolling down.” It short: the date of someone’s passing/death kind of denotes game over for any future direct interactions this side of Heaven.
Today is not the only day I think of my father. I think of him often. Daily. Several times a day, only thing is now I’m more aware of the loss. But since I’m an optimistic realist, I’ve opted to focus my attention on the legacy my father left for me.
I think of his love for my mother and three siblings, and the innumerable ways in which he demonstrated that love. I can’t help but remember his ebullient nature with friends. He was both style and substance, and the type of man who lit up whatever room he entered.
I know of his academic accomplishments in becoming the first in his family to not only graduate from college; but to also serve in the United States Navy and as Dean of Men at the historic black college, Florida A&M University.
Years later, as a middle-aged black man, I have a better grasp of his irascibility with being passed over for promotions for which he was more than qualified because of the color of his skin. But I am also reminded of how even in the face of abject racism his fortitude (coupled with God’s grace) he rose to become the first black nationally-recognized top southeastern U.S. sales manager for Anheuser-Busch, Inc. — several years running. (Numbers don’t lie.)
So today, like so many other days during the year, I swath myself in father’s legacy of integrity and intelligence, his gregarious nature, and his faith in God, in the hopes that it’s more than obvious that I’m “Rosey’s” son … even if you never met him.
The only difference is that today I’m posting here to let you know how much I love and desperately miss him.
Randall Watts says:
Clay, This was an awesome tribute to your Dad. Although I had not seen him since my family moved away from (street name), in 1977, my family will forever be indebted to him. Had it not been for your Dad’s help, my brother and sister would have never attended college nor graduated from Florida A&M University. So from all of my family, we thank your Dad, Rosey Rivers, for giving back and making sure others had an opportunity to succeed. Signed, Your former next door neighbor,
Clay Rivers says:
Randy, I NEVER knew that about your siblings … or maybe it totally slipped my memory. Thank you for the gracious reminder. You guys were the best!
Sitzy says:
Clay (and Cindy), Yup, the reality of the finality certainly sticks with us. For me 3 decades since my dad passed and 3 years since my mom joined the party in heaven. The anniversaries can give us an excuse to go out and enjoy something they enjoyed in their honor, or as you have shown us, it is a good time to ponder a legacy. Thank you for sharing the story of your dad. Please do it every year and whenever you feel like it. It is a beautiful tribute.
Clay Rivers says:
Sitzy, it’s ironic that you encourage me to “do it every year,” because I thought as I wrote the post that this would be the last time I’d do this. The idea of people thinking it had become a well-worn ritual on my part didn’t sit well with me. More importantly, I hope people who have lost loved ones would be encouraged to examine their feelings/memories if they previously felt inhibited.
Clay Rivers says:
Thank you, Cindy. He was quite a remarkable man. Grief is such a sinkhole of an emotion for me that I have to skirt the edges ever so gingerly for fear of falling in headlong. As time goes on, the shock and ache lessen to reveal just how important my father is to me.
Cindy says:
Clay, I always loved your posts about your dad, and this is my first spring reading about your pop since my dad passed away. I have a new level of understanding, my friend.