George Bailey? Not. Daddy. Yes. Part and parcel.

A battered 60-year-old manual typewriter, original ribbon intact, with the Samsonite-type case tucked beneath the old school desk upon where it rests.

Assorted 50-year-old textbooks with a name stamped on the top and sides of closed volumes, in Old English type.
A few ancient Bill Cosby comedy, Jackie Gleason Orchestra, and Handel's Messiah on LP.

A collection of American Heritage volumes and a series of Horizon volumes containing comprehensive records of world history, ranging from Constantinople to Admiral Cook and the Arctic Circle.

Seems like the trappings of George Bailey type, doesn't it? Not quite...

Two months ago yesterday my elderly father, in advanced stages of dementia, went in for relief surgery from pressure sores and a neglected leg wound. He had been under state care in Israel for the past several years, as his dementia and decline after decades of drinking had caused all but one family member to distance themselves for a number of reasons.

Stateside, my brother and I had been the only ones willing to contact him, after decades of estrangement.
Three out of ten is better than none -- and he really did some awful things to the younger set, so I can't blame them. For some people, not dealing with a painful past seems to be the best course of action.

To each one their own way.

Of course the surgery was a stop-gap measure and could not cure his ailing body. He "slipped the surly bonds of earth" as John Magee penned, quoted by President Reagan  after the Challenger's ill-fated launch.

Jewish custom requires immediate burial, and he was interred in Israel,so I have not yet had a chance to truly say good-bye, nor visit a grave site. I don't know if that will ever transpire...

I have moved, over the past ten days, from a WWII cottage to a spacious home with a formal dining room, which I am transforming into a pub/library/lounge. :-) As I unpack box after box of books and other paraphernalia, I randomly have in my hands tangible reminders of the life and times of my late father, at just about my age.

My hard-drinking, lightning lecturing, quick-witted father loved to live, laugh, and learn.

Whatever ghastly character flaws he had cannot be denied, but the trappings that I have kept with me for the last thirty years, (the only connections I have had since 1985 to the Daddy I love) suggest a man who ran deep and thought great thoughts about amazing people and events.

A man who loved history and the lasting ramifications it had on the present and future.

A man who loved music, and socializing, and tears-in-your-eyes comedy routines.

A man who ran strong, bullheaded at times, using leadership at others, in every aspect of his life.

Nothing gentle ever came from my dad. Our greatest strengths are most often our greatest weaknesses.

Two months after we knew we would lose you from this silly planet to the glory that awaits, I sit tapping away on the modern counterpart to your old Royal typewriter, Daddy -- surrounded by your books, your music, your interests.

I went to bed the other night, in my new house, with tears in my eyes, suddenly and unexpectedly missing you terribly, as I have for the last 26 years, but these days I don't dream of suddenly seeing you somewhere and rushing to hug you, like I used to. You are here with me now in so many ways.

Thank you for the good stuff I got from you, the deep strong current that runs through me for justice and equality and reverence for things greater than ourselves, and for my deep desire to laugh, learn, love, and live.

Cheers.