Sweet Second Chance

An updated version of one an old Toastmasters contest speech I gave, about the death of my father. Hope it translates well enough...

How uncomfortable can you get? I don’t mean being too cold, or achy, or in a tie; I mean really uncomfortable. Lots of things trigger it: a creepy first date, a job interview, or that conversation when a relationship ends. Hopefully you haven’t had many events like this. The ones you want to escape from. When those feelings start on your spine, then travel down to twist your gut - our instinct is just to run, to be away.

Funerals are like that. Stiff clothes, bad lighting, flat music, and a sadness hanging over everything. It’s harder if the person was close, and there’s a hole your heart because you didn’t get to…..

For me it was eighteen months ago. Seeing my dad lying in that casket was surreal. He didn’t look like himself. It was partly the poor make-up job, but mostly it was how still he was. He’d been vibrant – even reclining in his chair. That stillness was….unnatural.

The receiving line was the worst. I shook hands with strangers who pretended like they’d known my dad. My dad. I forced a smile, traded grips and reluctant hugs, and pretended I was listening. I didn’t want to hear what they thought of him, or how sorry they were. What I wanted was five minutes alone, to….

It’s funny how your mind can drift off in times of stress. Mine took me to the summer when I was eleven….

It felt like an odd choice. I was jerk at eleven. Maybe a lot kids are at that age, but I was a super jerk. I’d suddenly get fed up with anything, storm off alone to brood, and then complain that nobody liked me. I must’ve been a joy. 

It was hot, we’d been outside too long, and everything was getting on my nerves. The cut grass smelled too strong, and the other kids laughed too loud. The sun was too bright, the game was stupid….I had struck out the last time. In kickball! Everybody laughed at me. I tried to laugh too – at first.

It'd be my turn again soon, and I couldn't take it anymore. I had to get away. I couldn’t have said why, but I knew if I stepped to the plate again; I was going scream or bite something. Or cry. It was too much: the noise, itchy grass, and my sweaty….everywhere.

What can I say?  I was eleven…And I bolted for an oak tree. I needed shade, silence, and five freaking minutes to cool down. Or to learn kickball. Or develop a healthy sense of perspective; whatever came first. I needed to be alone, and not be there.

I'd just settled down when the adult came strolling over. Dick Dickson, a name I can’t forget. I kept my eyes down as he crouched beside me. 

"Shade trees are nice. But other people are nice too." He took a caramel crème from his pocket, offering it to me. "Candy?" 

I turned away, “No thanks….dick”

He unwrapped it, put it in his mouth, then walked away - whistling.

I didn't care. It only mattered that he was gone, I was alone, and getting my five minutes. What he'd said meant nothing to me, because I hadn't really been paying attention.

You know moods pass, and once mine had, candy sounded great. Walking back, I saw everybody had a piece. I told Dick I was ready for mine too. He chuckled and said, "Nope, sorry. All gone"

That part I understood...sometimes there’s no second chance at a first try. Everybody stared at me. I went home, still uncomfortable – and candy-less.

At dad’s funeral, I remembered needing to escape so badly. Now people were telling my dad's stories. I couldn't take it anymore. I was going to scream, or bite something. Or cry.

Dad told great stories. He was a police officer  most of his life, and I don't think is hard childhood back in the mountains prepared him a son who liked show tunes and Vaudeville.

I never doubted he loved me. We just weren't in sync most of the time. 

It was like that when I got a call from my sister saying he'd gotten worse, and I should come home right away. I drove as fast as I could, but he died an hour before I got there to say goodbye. Just a little late, not quite in sync.

In my opinion, Dad's stories were his one artistic pursuit; and he was a master. I learned them too, and told them. It was my strongest connection to him. Now that he was gone, I imagined he'd left them to me. That they were mine now.

So, why was I hearing them from these people I'd never met or barely knew? It had to stop. I had to get away. I needed a quite place, and five freaking minutes to myself. I needed to say good-bye. What can I say? I wasn’t eleven anymore, and there was no shade to hide in. Everybody was looking at me. I was uncomfortable, and dad-less.

It’s funny how your mind can drift off…Mine kept repeating something I’d heard when I was eleven.  "Shade trees are nice. But other people are nice too."

How uncomfortable can you get? When you don’t escape…you find out. 

I faced what I thought I couldn’t stand. I listened to the stories. They weren’t the same ones, really. They had new perspectives, details, and characters; adding to the ones I already knew. I got to see my dad in a new light, shinning from those who’d known him in ways I didn’t. It wasn’t easy, or comfortable, but it was worth it.

So, how uncomfortable can you get? What can I say? Life is hard. Growing, learning, loving, and loss. None of it is comfortable, just inevitable. Sometimes, it’s even worth it. I’m not wise enough to give advice…expect that you should find a good shade tree.

It is ok to get away sometimes, just don’t stay too long. There are nice people in the world. And candy, too.