Ever since I was an anxious kid with Peter Pan syndrome, I’ve always searched for the secret to slowing time down to a crawl.
Happiness speeds it up (“Time flies when you’re having fun!”). Travel, and I mean real travel, helps to calm time, demanding a slow trod for you to take it all in.
But at 35, I’ve finally figured out how to make it practically stop.
Grief is a pair of lead boots on the marching feet of time. Just when you want time to speed up (“Time heals all wounds”), it inches to a trudge, dragging one leg behind it.
Last month, I spent my first birthday without my dad. That morning, I cried. A lot. I imagined myself as a newborn, being held by my dad 35 years ago. Thoughts like those create bends in time, so that the then and now can co-exist for a while.
On Monday, we will celebrate my mom’s first birthday without my dad. Her first birthday without him in over 60 years (they started dating when they were 14).
And then comes the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, and his birthday… I don’t talk about how hard it is, and this is the first time I’ve written about it. I feel like the words cut open wounds that are trying to heal, but the truth is that whether I voice it or not, we’re hurting. And healing, because that’s what Dad would want.
I’ve been wanting to post my dad’s Eulogy because I feel like it encapsulates him. At his funeral, I’m not sure how many people were able to hear the last paragraph due to my sobbing.
I just want his memory out there in the world for anyone to see, because my dad, Wayne Stewart Rice, was here.
***
Every girl’s first love is their Dad, if they’re lucky. When I was around 7 or 8, I was just starting to figure out this marriage stuff by watching my parents closely. One person washes the dishes, the other dries them. One person drives, the other complains. You pay bills together, comfort each other, go on trips together. With this in mind, I asked my Dad, “Can I just marry you when I grow up?”
I mean, it made sense to me. Dad made me laugh all the time. We had fun together. He wasn’t afraid to be goofy in public, which I appreciated. He took me to cool places and bought me things. He cuddled me if I was sleepy or sad. Whenever something was broken, he fixed it. He even built me a house! A treehouse, mind you, but a house nonetheless.
To me, marrying Dad made total sense, but Mom had a thing or two to say about that.
I interviewed my parents a few years ago and asked how they met. I swear, the movie Grease flashed through my mind as Dad explained how he’d spent his days hanging out on street corners smoking cigarettes until he met my mom, an innocent Catholic schoolgirl, at a drive-in movie theater. With his crew-cut and sideburns, Dad was Danny Zucko and mom was his Sandra Dee. I doubt Dad danced or sang like John Travolta, though.
In any case, they had an amazing life together, through thick and thin.
Throughout his life, Dad filled many different roles for many different people. Father, husband, brother, grandfather, uncle, cousin, friend… He was a father to young children throughout many different eras. He raised my siblings when he was a young man and he was a father to me in his more mature years. Although, whenever one of us asked about the skull he tattooed on his arm as a kid, he would say, “Oh that? That’s a picture of you!”
Depending on who you are, you will remember my dad in different ways. Snowmobiling up in Eagle River, camping in the backwoods, tricking you into riding Space Mountain, helping you fix something, making you smile. What I will remember cannot be summarized in this eulogy, as I’m sure is the same for many of you, but here’s a snapshot.
For me, he was the strong and silent type, except when he had a good joke to tell. He didn’t go a day without laughing or making others laugh. He was hard working and patient and kind. He only bought shirts with a pocket so he’d have a place to put his glasses. He loved a good surf and turf, and he loved adventure.
I remember when we were in Arizona, I was around 8 or 9, and he woke me up right before sunrise so we could climb what I called a mountain but what was probably a big, rocky hill. I remember him following right behind me to make sure I didn’t lose my footing and helping me up the steep areas. I thought about how awesome my dad was to be taking me on this adventure. I felt so proud to call him Dad, and that never changed.
Thinking of these moments has helped ease the pain of losing him. I imagine him as a much younger man, climbing that mountain in the rising sunlight. Reaching the top. Smiling that smile of his. I encourage you all to think back on all of the wonderful moments you had with my Dad, too.
You know, the doctors said he had a bad heart, but all of us know better. He had one of the best and biggest hearts there ever was.
