09-09-2008, 06:42 PM
Larry Ray Womack; December 15, 1941 - June 26, 2008
[attachment=3]
In Loving Memory
A dedicated nurse-anesthetist for 37 years, my father was revered for both his teaching ability and consummate professionalism. He served a term on the board of the AANA and was a sought-after clinical instructor in his field.
Although Daddy’s professional achievements were substantial, his devotion and joy lay in his family. An active United Methodist, scout leader for Troop124 in years past and youth softball coach, he did his best to show his family the utmost love by involving himself as much as possible in their activities.
His name was Larry - he was my father. And, I never imagined how vast the hole would be when he was ripped out of my world.
I called him Daddy up until his death - even though my own children are adults. However ridiculous it may sound for a grown woman to refer to her father as “Daddy” is neither here nor there. It simply is - and he was never anything else but Daddy to me.
We had an alarmingly simple relationship. It appeared awkward in some respects, but it worked for us. He loved me very much, just like I loved him - but, we weren’t close - not in a conventional sense. We just didn’t have much in common. But, who says the value of a relationship is based on the number of words we speak to one another? Maybe a relationship’s worth is more subjective than that - Maybe its value is determined by the needs of the participants, rather than the content of the encounters.
I didn’t know much about Daddy other than the basics. I’m not even sure what his favorite color was - although I remember him wearing a lot of navy and hunter green…. I suppose I should be appalled by my lack of knowledge - but, surprisingly, it doesn’t bother me. Does it really matter what Daddy’s favorite color was? Is it important to remember that?
Instead, I remember other things. I remember that he hated the hymn “(Up from the Grave) He Arose” because he said it sounded like a funeral dirge. I remember when they sang it in church, he would always lean over close to me and make snoring noises. I always laughed - so did he. And when Mama got onto us, we laughed harder.
I remember that he loved gadgets - fishing lures, pocket knives, circular saws and overalls. He collected coins, loved the beach and puttering around the yard. He loved estate sales and eating lunch off the hot dog cart outside of Lowe’s. He loved me, my brother and my sister. He loved his grandchildren. He loved Mama.
As a father he excelled, but as a grandfather, he soared. He was utterly devoted to his 5 grandchildren. One of my favorite memories of him is walking into the living room and seeing him with my 3 yr old niece, sitting in the floor. She was painting his toenails (and most of his toes) while he sat there - perfectly content to submit to that unmanly thing, simply because the Baby Girl was amused by it.
He never talked to me about what was in his soul. He never shared his dreams with me, or spoke about his fears. He spoke with my brother, though - often - and my sister, too. For a long time, I thought they knew Daddy in a way that was denied me. Sometimes the thought made me feel like a visitor at home. It wasn’t until I was grown that I realized what the difference really was - they were the same - my father, brother and sister…. Scientific, objective, analytical people. And their path was not my path. I’m the dreamer, the writer, the artist, the philosopher. At least, that was my theory.
After his death, I found a folded up piece of old notebook paper in a box where he kept knickknacks. Nothing of value to anyone but him - old campaign buttons, cuff links, novelty coins, and this faded piece of notebook paper. A poem. Admittedly, a very bad poem….. My first poem. Written when I was 13 years old and full of adolescent angst. Embarrassing, really….
59 days after he died - on the day after my 43rd birthday….Tucked away in a box full of things only he treasured. Thirty years, he’d kept it. The proof I was right. He didn’t understand me - couldn’t, really, because we were so very different. But, that didn’t change the fact that I was special in his eyes.
I wonder sometimes if I should regret that I didn’t know his deep self.
In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t.
Things between us were simple - are simple. It didn’t matter who he was inside - what he thought about, what he dreamed of… I loved him. He loved me.
His name was Larry - and he was my father.[attachment=3]
[attachment=3]
In Loving Memory
A dedicated nurse-anesthetist for 37 years, my father was revered for both his teaching ability and consummate professionalism. He served a term on the board of the AANA and was a sought-after clinical instructor in his field.
Although Daddy’s professional achievements were substantial, his devotion and joy lay in his family. An active United Methodist, scout leader for Troop124 in years past and youth softball coach, he did his best to show his family the utmost love by involving himself as much as possible in their activities.
His name was Larry - he was my father. And, I never imagined how vast the hole would be when he was ripped out of my world.
I called him Daddy up until his death - even though my own children are adults. However ridiculous it may sound for a grown woman to refer to her father as “Daddy” is neither here nor there. It simply is - and he was never anything else but Daddy to me.
We had an alarmingly simple relationship. It appeared awkward in some respects, but it worked for us. He loved me very much, just like I loved him - but, we weren’t close - not in a conventional sense. We just didn’t have much in common. But, who says the value of a relationship is based on the number of words we speak to one another? Maybe a relationship’s worth is more subjective than that - Maybe its value is determined by the needs of the participants, rather than the content of the encounters.
I didn’t know much about Daddy other than the basics. I’m not even sure what his favorite color was - although I remember him wearing a lot of navy and hunter green…. I suppose I should be appalled by my lack of knowledge - but, surprisingly, it doesn’t bother me. Does it really matter what Daddy’s favorite color was? Is it important to remember that?
Instead, I remember other things. I remember that he hated the hymn “(Up from the Grave) He Arose” because he said it sounded like a funeral dirge. I remember when they sang it in church, he would always lean over close to me and make snoring noises. I always laughed - so did he. And when Mama got onto us, we laughed harder.
I remember that he loved gadgets - fishing lures, pocket knives, circular saws and overalls. He collected coins, loved the beach and puttering around the yard. He loved estate sales and eating lunch off the hot dog cart outside of Lowe’s. He loved me, my brother and my sister. He loved his grandchildren. He loved Mama.
As a father he excelled, but as a grandfather, he soared. He was utterly devoted to his 5 grandchildren. One of my favorite memories of him is walking into the living room and seeing him with my 3 yr old niece, sitting in the floor. She was painting his toenails (and most of his toes) while he sat there - perfectly content to submit to that unmanly thing, simply because the Baby Girl was amused by it.
He never talked to me about what was in his soul. He never shared his dreams with me, or spoke about his fears. He spoke with my brother, though - often - and my sister, too. For a long time, I thought they knew Daddy in a way that was denied me. Sometimes the thought made me feel like a visitor at home. It wasn’t until I was grown that I realized what the difference really was - they were the same - my father, brother and sister…. Scientific, objective, analytical people. And their path was not my path. I’m the dreamer, the writer, the artist, the philosopher. At least, that was my theory.
After his death, I found a folded up piece of old notebook paper in a box where he kept knickknacks. Nothing of value to anyone but him - old campaign buttons, cuff links, novelty coins, and this faded piece of notebook paper. A poem. Admittedly, a very bad poem….. My first poem. Written when I was 13 years old and full of adolescent angst. Embarrassing, really….
59 days after he died - on the day after my 43rd birthday….Tucked away in a box full of things only he treasured. Thirty years, he’d kept it. The proof I was right. He didn’t understand me - couldn’t, really, because we were so very different. But, that didn’t change the fact that I was special in his eyes.
I wonder sometimes if I should regret that I didn’t know his deep self.
In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t.
Things between us were simple - are simple. It didn’t matter who he was inside - what he thought about, what he dreamed of… I loved him. He loved me.
His name was Larry - and he was my father.[attachment=3]