“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” Marcus Tullius Cicero
Today would have been dad’s 84th birthday. He died 983 days ago and I think it is safe to say that my sisters and I miss him very, very much. Dad was a great salesman, father, community member and small businessman. He loved his family, The University of Tennessee, to eat, to read, to fall asleep in his chair, to work hard (why he fell asleep in his chair), trading cars, golf, basketball and his cat. When he died, we stood in the receiving line listening to stories from over 40 years about how he had helped people.
He set a powerful example.
I often tell the story of how he taught me to waterski. Dad loved to ski (he skied at 78!) and really wanted me to learn. I fought it for a while (I was a pain as a kid) but one day, I relented and he took me out into the middle of Fort Loudon Lake (on the Tennessee River near Knoxville). Dad drug me up and down the river. Over and over and over and over. I, being eight and apparently not very bright, did not release the rope so I ended up drinking enough water to develop gills. Then a miracle happened — I popped up out of the water! I struggled to stay in between the wake and stay up. But as we went along, I could see dad starting to get bored. (Dad was a big kid and you didn’t want him getting bored). He put the boat into a tight circle and I got slung outside of the wake. For those of you who don’t understand centrifugal force, the boat goes 20, the little boy on the skis goes 795 mph. I was hanging on for dear life when I hit a piece of driftwood.
CRASH!
I looked like the skier from ABC’s Wide World of Sports (agony of defeat) opening. I tumbled, lost me skis and hit the water hard. And the water hit back. So did one of the skis — it whacked me in my head. I was half-dazed when he pulled the boat back around. He carefully pulled it next to me and started poking me with a paddle. I think he was messing with me.
“You OK?” he asked.
“Go away.” I responded. He then said, “Grab the rope.”
“I’m swimming back.”
“You can’t swim that far. Grab the rope.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re making your story about how you got back up, not how you fell down.”
I grabbed the rope, popped back up and skied for the rest of the day.
Twenty-five years later, I was lying in bed after my melanoma surgery. I was floating around in a haze of opioid painkillers, dreaming of purple unicorns and feeling sorry for myself because I had cancer. Then I felt pressure on my forehead. It was almost like tapping.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
I opened my eyes and saw my dad leaning over me.
“Get up,” he said. “We’re walking around the block.”
“But I just had surgery.”
“Get up. I’ll help you. But we’re going to make your story about how you beat cancer, not how you had cancer.”
You see, he knew what I was going through. He had had cancer a couple of years before I had. Dad wasn’t Yoda by any means, but he had a gift of teaching things indirectly. Any resilience I have is from him. And for that, I will be eternally grateful. Now when I get knocked down, I know to grab the rope.
Grabbing the rope after dad died has been tough. But I know that’s what he would want. The man wasn’t big on pity parties.
Let me just say this though: Dad wasn’t Saint Dave and that is not what this post is about. He was flawed and could at times be a butthead. (n that respect, the apple did not fall far from the tree.) And he and I could also butt heads. But after he died, my sisters and I realized just how much he loved and protected us.
Dave Ramsey was about family and community. He loved my mother in a way I can’t understand. He loved his children deeply. In the video my friend Mike Frascogna III gave me, dad talks about me for about 30 minutes. He was so proud — not only of me but of my sisters. When we came up in the video, his eyes twinkled.
Dad had many funny quirks. He’d point on maps with his middle finger. He’d get mad and say, “That’s wrom!” I thought for years that Washington was pronounced Warshington. He loved to laugh — I wish I had his sense of humor. It was that good.
Dad always said after a big meal, “That was the best meal I ever had.” It was funny, actually, because we could predict it every single time. So tonight, I’m going out to eat. I’m going to eat a big meal. And in his honor, I am going to proclaim it to be the best meal I ever had.
He changed when his dad died. When Grandpa passed away, dad really opened up. I understand why now.
Happy birthday Dad. Thanks for all you did for us three kids. We love you. And we always will.