Happy Birthday, Dad!

My dad was born on October 13 1935 in Bronx, New York. His mother, Rose, was the daughter of immigrants from Sicily and his father, also Lawrence Howard, was the son of coal miners in the Appalachian hills of Kentucky.

Unfortunately, I never knew any of them well, though I did love each of them dearly.

My grandmother was a short, bustling, round woman - I remember her smiles, her food, her carved Chinese jewelry box. My grandfather was a tall, slender, quiet man - I remember his smiles, his pipe, the smell of whiskey (or bourbon?), and some of his stories.


When I was a child, I believed my dad was the smartest person I knew. He taught me to love the search for knowledge and understanding. He tried to teach me to stand up for myself, but that was less successful.

When I was a child, I believed my dad could do anything, and he was patient enough to let me work beside him with carpentry, masonry, even some electrical work. He let me tinker, take things apart, and helped me to put them back together. He could throw a ball so high into the sky that it disappeared - and he knew the coolest trick of making it seem like his index finger could split in half. When I had nightmares, I would creep into my parents bedroom to the protection of his presence. There was never a doubt in my mind that he loved me.

As I grew older, I saw more of the man and less of the dad. I saw his flaws clearly, and I understood that he was not the best of men. I saw the he moved through life according to his own set of values - and while they were not consistent with societal norms ... or mine - they were consistent with his own. I respected his consistency, if not his actions and choices. As I became a young woman with a life and family of my own, his choices shifted him onto a path that rarely brought us together. It was a loss for both of us.

In August of 2006 he called to say that the doctor had found cancer in his lung. They did surgery in September to try to stop the spread - but it was too late. Or, the surgery itself had spread the disease. It was small cell carcinoma and quickly spread through his body.

I traveled down from the Berkshires to Manhattan to visit him after that surgery. The room was filled with my sisters, my brother, and my father's wife. The nurses came and went. It was busy and loud. He was trying his best to be self-contained, in-control, and fearless. I'm not a person who competes with others - for attention or anything else. I waited. Eventually, the room emptied and we were left alone, together.

On the train ride down into the city, I thought about what I could say to him. I thought about what I might want to hear from my daughter if I were in a similar condition. And so, I took his hand and said, "I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that there is peace between us. I want you to know that I'm okay and that you don't have to worry about me - my life is good and getting better." He squeezed my hand in response and that was that.

Six months later, my dad passed on. I had gone to visit him as often as I could during that time span, while dealing with my own illness. I wasn't there the morning he died, but I felt that we had made our peace in that quiet moment together.

I visited with him for Christmas that year, and gave him a diary to keep track of his thoughts and stories. I'd hoped to read it one day. I never saw it again. It was a loss for us both.

Earlier this evening, I sat with some friends and colleagues. I sipped a glass of whiskey in honor of my dad while engaging in some good conversations, and shared some laughter. I've kept my promise to him. I have a good life, it's getting better, and he still doesn't need to worry about me.