Dad’s Legacy
by Scott Shaffer

I hurry home from 7th grade–a ten-minute walk–pelted by raindrops.
Shuffle into Dad’s den, plop on the couch, catch his look of surprise.

“No football?” “Dad, it’s raining!” “If no lightning, there’s practice!”
I trudge back to school, unsure, dripping; sure enough, practice.

We chat often in his den. His personality always looms large: leaning back
in his arm chair, a cadre of football-coach bios behind him. Ice tea or martini

in hand, he likes to read a beloved bio, or a novel about Horatio Hornblower,
British sea hero. Sometimes he recounts playing sports for Sandusky High–

once peering up at a full beard across the scrimmage line! Or his two-handed,
wrist-flick shots from the key. But, most of all, I recall loving encouragement

to be disciplined. I perch on the couch, he preaches, “I squandered my best,
majored on fun, didn’t reach my potential. I love you. Learn from my mistakes.”

He requires me, oldest of four, to work hard–rake leaves, clean the garage,
shovel snow, get good grades; to keep my word; to do my best.

He speaks love to me by attending every game I ever play in every sport.
He insists we always eat dinner together, as a family–more tangible love.

Like a circus ringmaster, as we sup, he prompts ongoing repartee, bequeaths
to us camaraderie, caring. Suddenly, age 55, he dies of his third heart attack,

the night before Easter. Now, scattered over the U.S., our four sibs still connect.
When we gather, phone, text, we often reminisce, guffaw, and regale ourselves

with stories of Dad–a resurrection of sorts … as Dad lives on in our love.



 

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