Today is the 20th anniversary of my father’s passing. Which seems impossible to me, because 20 years is two-thirds of my life, and it just can’t be that he has been gone that long. It was just the other day… really.
Seeing these pictures on a computer makes my heart ache. So far, they have only lived on the walls of my house, holding places in books I have read over the years, taken up small slivers of space in precious boxes in the basement or on the top shelf of my closet. The small box of things I had belonging to him stays– a pair of eyeglasses, the license plate from his old beat-up Checker, a tee shirt he wore often, his old Christmas stocking from when he was a kid, along with some other pictures and notes from faculty friends at the university where he taught photography.
My Aunt Barbara (left) and my Father
I search his face in these pictures, looking for glimpses of his grandsons. And they are there! Something in the eyes with Emil; this picture above reminds me of Milo; and I swear Oliver has his nose or chin, I can’t place it, but it’s there.
Mama Joan and Daddy Jack, 1980
1984
And though it was two-thirds of my life ago, I was old enough to remember him well. How he used to play practical jokes on all of us (including my mom) all the time: turning out all the lights in the house and creeping around silently like a cat until he caught one of us in a whirlwind of screams and laughter; pulling the overhead branch of a tree, covered in raindrops from a recent rainfall as we passed under, only to jump out of the way so that I was left standing soaking wet and surprised but laughing. I remember playing catch with him in the field across the street from our house; how he would throw the baseball waaaaaaay up high, as high as the heavens, while my brother and I scrambled to get underneath it to catch it. I remember sitting on the basement steps watching him between the wooden bars of the stairs as he painted giant canvases and mixed colors onto huge sheets of plastic. He took us to get Rally’s hamburgers in his Checker cab and let us roller skate down the long corridor of the photography lab building even though we probably shouldn’t have.
My father instilled a sense of social equality in me from a young age. I remember going with him to meet up with several homeless people whom he had photographed and befriended. He spoke to them with respect and in my young eyes, they were people with stories and problems, but also with dignity. I probably became a social worker because of him, in some ways.
He showed me what a marriage was supposed to be. He and my mom were intensely playful and affectionate, and had the occasional blow-up arguments that they always resolved. They did not hide disagreements from us kids, and because of that I grew up to understand how to talk (and sometimes yell) the way through tough spots. And that those times did not mean the end of a relationship, just the shifting of one. Normal. Together, they showed me normal.
I think about my father most when big things happen in my life. When I graduated high school, then college. Grad school. Got married, and had a baby soon after. Then another baby. Then another! And today. I think about him and remember. And smile. I love you, Dad.
We all miss you.
Dear Lauren,
Your father taught me what it was truly like to be in love. He was the true force in my life that kept me grounded, taught me about responsibility and how important it was to be totally honest with oneself, and to have the ability to change. He saw every possibility and almost demanded that we all open our eyes to take advantage of the gifts life had to offer. This was a man who, in his short life on this earth, touched so many people. I remember our after dinner walks where we held hands and talked about family and the fine arts department at the university, and how he wanted to ‘put it on the map’. I miss him terribly and love him still. As one of his good friends said to him at hospice on this day 20 years ago, “Jack, I’ll see you on the other side.” I must believe that somehow this will be true for all of us in some form. I look forward to holding his hand, looking into his eyes, hearing his voice and walking through the leaves, again. As he said about his photography, ‘I continue to look for beauty’. He is doing that at this moment.
Love, Mom
Okay. My eyes were welling with tears when I read your post and then I read your mom’s reply.. and now I am full-on crying. What an amazing man. And I am so sorry his life was cut so short. Your memories of him are wonderful. Thank you for sharing.
And that photo of your dad and your aunt in the tub?! It looks exactly like Emil (aunt) and Milo (your dad). I bet you could stage a similar photo of your boys and it would be hard to tell the difference.
xo.
Lovely, Lauren. These anniversaries are often overlooked or un-dealt with but I think you found a way to make it beautiful. I always thought you were the spitting image of your mom, but now I see where you got your dimples. I love the one of you two in 1984, and your 4-year-old intensity…I believe we’ve seen that in your boys, not just inherited from Andrew! I also see Milo’s smile, Emil’s eyes and again, those jolly dimples in Oliver. Amazing man and family, his legacy definitely lives on under your own roof as well as in your heart.
Lovely moving post, Lauren. My dad means the world to me, as yours does to you. Holding you in the light. xo
Add me to the list of weepy readers from this post, and your mom’s reply. The pictures of you and your dad together are so precious. I’m thinking of you today, when you are probably missing him even more than usual. xo
Beautiful, Lauren. Clearly, so much of your father’s creative spirit lives on in you (and in the face, nose, and eyes of your boys…). He would be proud to see the way you live with your gorgeous family.
xoxo
C
You’re never old enough to lose your daddy, but I do wish with my whole heart you had had more time with him. Big hugs and internet love to you on this anniversary.
Absolutely beautiful. Your father was such a handsome man- and stylish too, he looks like someone that I would love to hang out with which is a quality that doesn’t always come through in photos. You must miss him terribly. I don’t know you in person, but from sharing in your wonderful words and images over this past year I can tell you that he would be very proud. Hugs on this special day.
Wow! Thank you all so much for your kind words. I do miss him so much today more than usual, but I am also in a good place in my life where I feel like I can really celebrate him. He was an amazing man for sure.
Beautiful beautiful post Lauren. Such a lovely tribute to your dad. I am just loving the pictures of the two of you together. So so sweet. Your dad’s spirit lives on through you…and he is surely proud of the wonderful mother and beautiful woman you have become.
What a beautiful tribute.
Thinking of you today.
xo,
Nora
Beautiful, Lauren! Boy, do you smile EXACTLY like him! Wish we could have met him. We get lots of great stories about him from Barbara (though Shawn remembers him well, too!)
What wonderful pictures, Lauren and a great tribute to your dad. You are so much your father. I never stop missing him, but I know I will see him again. I can still hear his voice, but always fear i will forget what it sounds like. I will always treasure the years growing up with him. He sure was the ultimate kidder! I wish that you could have had more time with him. I think of him at so many different times, especially family times when he should be here seeing his family. I see him in your children, but especially in you. He is so proud of the person you are and so am I . I love you, Lauren
Your words are so beautiful. Thank you for sharing this. Sending you love and peace!
this is so beautifully written, lauren. your dad sounds like he was an amazing person; i’m so glad i had the privilege of reading your lovely words about him.
What a beautiful post, and what a beautiful letter your mother wrote. Your father would be incredibly proud of the woman, mother, and wife you have become.
Lauren, my heart is aching as I read these beautifully written words and look at these wonderful images of your dad and family, and you as a sweet little girl. I see the resemblance between you and your dad for sure and yes, in your boys. What rich and loving memories you have of him. He seemed like an incredibly powerful force for good and beauty in the lives of everyone who knew him.
Thank you for sharing with all of us.
xo
cortnie
What a lovely lovely tribute to your wonderful father gone too soon. Tears as I read it and your mom’s reply.
Thank you for your dear honesty. I came across your blog some time ago and peek every now and then. Your life seems so fantasy like compared to mine, but you losing your father seems to be a strong connection. Mine took his own life in 1991, when I was 15 (this ages me), and I will forever miss him deeply. I thank you for your sweet and passionate honesty regarding your father. He is obviously loved! 🙂
Lauren,
I don’t know if you remember me but I taught with Jack for quite a while. I have an amazing photograph of his from the children at play series. I look at it all the time and so wish that he had been able to make his incredible art for a whole life. He was a great person to work with – very committed and intensely involved with whatever he was doing. He had very high standards for himself and for everyone he worked with. I learned so much about teaching and being an artist from him. I miss him all the time and think of him often. He dearly loved you kids and your mother. I am glad to know that you are doing well. Nothing would have made him happier than to know that you are okay.
Beth