I created the following shortly after the death of my father, George Neuner Jr., in November of 2003.  I originally wrote it for myself, then read it at one of Pandora Scooter's "Out of the Box" open mic shows.  This year, around Father's Day, I posted it to Facebook, where it kindled responses from many of my friends, several of whom were inspired to go back and dig out old photo albums with pictures of their fathers.  I post it for you here, now.

For My Father:  November 2003

As I write this, Thanksgiving is only a week away. It’s traditionally a holiday where families gather together, although since my family moved to Florida it hasn’t been that for me in a long time. But this year, I’m thinking about family, and especially my dad.

For most of my life, Dad was a driver for a succession of trucking companies. For many of those years, he was also the union shop steward. His last years in trucking were spent in management. He worked hard and he made a good life for his family.

Dad loved Florida. He and Mom would take as many vacations there as they could. When his older sister moved down there, it started the wheels turning, and pretty soon he was buying property and arranging to have a home built. When the time came, he and Mom said good-bye to New Jersey forever without a backward glance. I don’t remember any other home they were so happy in, or any other place they’d rather have lived.

Dad spent the first year of his retirement puttering around, but he learned from his father what not to do in retirement. Dad went back to work at a Publix supermarket, and I used to tease him that after all these years my father had become a bag boy. He also made time to get involved with town and county politics, with the same pleasure doing civic work that he had in any of his jobs.

I was very lucky that my family was very matter-of-fact about my gayness. It wasn’t discussed or debated; it was just there, and it suited me, and so what? There were times when I thought I wasn’t the son my dad might have wanted, but I knew he loved and was proud of the son he had.

My dad was 74 years old when he died in the early hours of November 14. He was where he wanted to be, at home, in Florida; he was with my mother, his high school sweetheart, married for 53 years; and he went quickly, the way he wanted. One day, when she’s ready, Mom will scatter his ashes during one of the Florida sunsets he loved so much.

I have his eyes and his nose. I have the star sapphire ring my mother gave him so long ago. I have pictures and memories and a thousand unspoken lessons on what it is to be a man. But I’ll never hear him laugh again at one of my smart-ass remarks. I’ll never again hear him call me Buddy – his private nickname for me, one that no one else used. I’ll never have my Dad again.

And I’ll always carry him with me.

A postscript:  My mother died two months after my father.  My sister Penny and I scattered their ashes in Florida, at a location they both loved.