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Old as dirt. Twice as gritty.

It's about Jack
by Jo Slade - Story: 66507
Oct 27, 2011 / 5:00 am

My father-in-law died last week. He was 92 years old, and completely fed up with the kind of life his had become. My guess is that he took that last breath with real satisfaction. He was as ready to call it quits as anybody can be, and personally I think he chose a pretty interesting time to die, because if there’s any chance that recently-departed souls meet up in a waiting room for processing, he’ll be in there with Steve Jobs.
 
So anyway, Jim and I travelled south for the memorial service, which was held in Vancouver, Washington. There we met up with a lot of long-time-no-see family, and it was good to see them again. Then a minister got fired up and started the service, but the man had never actually met Jack Slade, so he just read Jack’s bio word-for-word, a bio which had already been handed out to everybody and read, I think, by all. Still, the words, nicely written by one of Jack’s grand-daughters, were infinitely better to hear than the words the minister spoke afterwards, when he was winging it. His ‘sermon’, if that’s what it was, seemed to boil down to two things: that we’re ‘all in the same boat’ - oh, he was crazy for that boat, mentioned it so many times that the less-staunch probably felt sea-sick - and that we’re ‘all going to die’, which, to be honest, was something we had figured out for ourselves some years ago.
 
After the boat business and assurances that we’re all going to die, he informed us that the memorial service ‘wasn’t about Jack,’ which surprised me, since as far as I could tell, it most certainly was about Jack. In truth, a memorial/funeral service is the one time when it really is completely and thoroughly about the person who has just died. Sure, the guest of honour doesn’t get to be there to revel in it, but it is most assuredly about him.
 
The minister then offered a chance for friends and family to say a few words about Jack, which they did, and it was nice, but he stressed that people should only say a few words, cautioning us against making a speech that was too lengthy. He had seen that happen too many times, he said, shaking his head. I would think that a memorial service comprised of family and friends talking for as long as it took to tell their stories would be a good thing, but not according to the minister, who presumably wanted more time to talk about that boat of his, the one we’re all in. I had intended to speak that day, because something had come to mind the night before, but I was pretty sure I couldn’t condense it to the required briefness dictated by the boating minister, so I remained silent.
 
What had come to mind the night before was the Sunday morning telephone call. Jim and his dad called each other almost every Sunday for about 15 years, ever since Jim’s mum died. It wasn’t EVERY Sunday, but it was pretty close. Sometimes they’d gossip (I’m here to tell you, men are shameless gossips, far more so than women, and that’s the truth), other times they did little more than talk about the weather (cold enough for you? hot enough for you?), and occasionally Jack was just plain cranky, and then Jim would roll his eyes at me. Near the end, though, they didn’t talk about anything much at all. 
 
Through the years I’d usually sit in the same room, typing away on my computer, tuning out the conversation for the most part. But I was always aware of the end of the call, because Jim would say, “I love you Dad,” and it wasn’t one of those lightweight off-the-cuff ‘love ya’ comments we all make, it had depth, it had heart, and it resonated. And I am sure on the other end of the line, Jack was saying, “I love you too, son.”
 
The years went by, and the bits of conversation that I heard reflected the changes in our lives. The goodbye never changed, though, and I always listened for that ‘I love you Dad.’ Near the end, when Jack had grown sick of life, the conversations started to take a real hit, because Jack had nothing more he wanted to say, but Jim still ended the call with the same words, just as heartfelt as in earlier years.
 
I suggested at one point that Jim try a different approach to get Jack talking again, to try talking to his dad about the old days, of his childhood, of Jim’s childhood, of Jim’s mum, the army, whatever. Those memories would soon die with Jack, and it seemed a pretty good idea to get them while the getting was good. I thought those were the things Jack was probably thinking about most of the time anyway, but I was wrong, because by that point he was just as uninterested in the past as he was the present, and as for the future, it was just a taunt to him, really, just something that would happen to others but not to him. When you’re 92, the future pretty much belongs to others.
 
So, as Jack’s life was slowly drifting to a stop, the conversations were as well, but Jim still called. Sometimes the phone would go unanswered, other times Jack would pick up but not say anything. Sometimes I’d still hear the ‘I love you Dad’, but I’m not sure there was anybody listening on the other end.
 
I thought about Jack’s increasing self-driven removal from the pleasures of life. Not answering the phone was probably just another step along the way to the end, because ever the quintessential  family man, was Jack, and I think maybe he needed to withdraw emotionally from those he loved in order to die. Jack was not an easy man by any stretch, and he had a pretty long list of dislikes (I was on that list, near the top, I’m sure), but he had a soft spot for his sons. Of course he loved the usual assortment of family and friends that one tends to love throughout one’s life, but he reserved a special and completely unconditional love for his sons, no strings attached. It would have been hard to leave them physically without first leaving them emotionally.
 
So this Sunday, and Sundays forever, Jim will have to face the day without that phone call. It’s going to be a bit strange for awhile, but life goes on, and one day he’ll probably be on the receiving end of a new protocol of Sunday calls that will end with “I love you Dad,” and when he is, he’ll remember the ones he had with his dad, and it’ll be a nice memory. In the meantime, despite a minister who tried to say otherwise, the memorial service really was about Jack, which is exactly how it should have been. This column is as well, and who knows, if Steve Jobs is out there in the afterlife developing an app for the dead to surf the Internet, which I have no doubt he is, then Jack may even get to read my words. And, I’m sure, completely disagree with me, on principle.
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About the Author

This bio was written by Jo Slade. As you can see she has written about herself in the third person. What normal person would do that? They just wouldn't. Who knows how many other persons might be involved in this thing, a second person? Another third? I worry about it. I - she - we - can't even keep it straight, this paragraph is a damn mess, there are persons all over the place. Round 'em up and shoot 'em. That's what I'd do, and by golly I think that's what Jo Slade would do as well.

Biographic nutshell: Jo has been messing around with words for a long time. Sometimes she'll just say words instead of writing them, it saves on paper.

This column: The columns that will appear here are of a highly serious and scholarly nature, therefore it is advised that you keep a dictionary and ponderous thoughts nearby.

If, after reading the column, you find yourself tossing and turning at night, burning with the need to email me, just do it. I answer to jo@castanet.net




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The views expressed are strictly those of the author and not necessarily those of Castanet. Castanet presents its columns "as is" and does not warrant the contents.

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