Minutes to Memories

I’m blogging early today. I’ve got a busy night scheduled, which I’ll tell you about tomorrow, so I thought I’d do this while I can…

Plus, I’m already thinking about something that relates quite a bit to the overall title to my blog: Minutes to Memories. I may need to pick a new song one of these days, when I begin to feel less like the phrase “you are young and you are the future” applies to me, but for now it still seems to work.

Today is the twelfth anniversary of the death of my father.

I guess it’s appropriate that my very best picture ever is of his grave, since his memory has such a picturesque hold on my mind. He was fifty years older than me, a fact that led our relationship to almost resemble grandfather/grandchild more than father/son, but only in a way that made the father/son reality even better. None of my friends heard World War 2 stories from their dad. None of them heard about life in the Great Depression. And no dad in the history of mankind spent more afternoons playing catch with his son than mine.

Has he really been gone for twelve years?

I was twenty-four years old when he died. Now I’m thirty-six. I’ve now spent an entire third of my life without a father. That is just so hard to believe.

They say time heals all wounds. I don’t know about that, but it sure does change things. Though I think about him a lot, I don’t think about him nearly as much as I used to… This I find very sad. I don’t cry about him anymore… This makes me want to cry all by itself.

Time provides coping skills, I’ll give it to time for that. But if it heals wounds where they don’t hurt anymore, well then time’s usefulness is way overrated. I want to hurt for the memory for my dad. Call me masochistic if you wish. He’s worth it.

I need a little wisdom from Mellencamp today: “Days turn to minutes, and minutes to memories. Life sweeps away the dreams we have planned. You are young, and you are the future. So suck it up and tough it out, and be the best you can.”

In memory of my dad today, another printing of my poem about him…


ALBERT STURGEON, JR. (AN ELEGY)

Nothing reminds me of home like a pack of Camel cigarettes.
My dad smoked them, and then we shot Havlicek jumpers at his shoes
With the wadded-up packs. I hated the putrid smell of the smoke,
And knew I’d never take it up. But he did, so I loved it, too.

My dad was tough. He smoked hard cigarettes and had drank hard liquor.
He once cleared a bar with a pool cue and spent the night behind bars.
He had fought the Japanese, and he never cried. He lived his life
Without a shirt, his sun-weathered skin, barrel chest, and thick forearms

Nicked and bruised and spotted with “monkey blood.” His bicep sported a
Tattoo of a battleship with the name, Ruby, below. I was
Stupid enough for years to think that was the ship’s name. No matter.
I loved his toughness. Because he was my dad, and he loved me.

He was tough enough to kiss me on the lips and offer his lap
As a seat until I was too big. He called me “booger” and his
Grandkids, “tootie-wumps.” He was tough enough to sing songs like, “I know
A song, ain’t very long, toodle-up, toodle-up, now it’s all gone.”

He was tough enough to spend hours on end playing catch with me.
His toughness came from a hard life. Growing up in the Depression,
Becoming a man at war, and growing old carving sides of beef
As a butcher shapes a man’s perspective. His perspective shaped me.

When I fell down, he’d say “That’ll feel better when it stops hurting.”
He cussed like the sailor he was, using nigger and goddammit
With ease. Church was fine for us, but not for him, and yet none of this
Fazes me. He came from a different era, and he loved me.

He’d offer “a big onion and cup of coffee” as birthday gifts,
But it was no secret that his heart melted for his family.
I still see him with a flip-over baloney sandwich before
Heading outside to do “something.” Undefeated by life. My dad.