10 years ago today my father died, and for the first time in my life I was in a world that did not include him. It was a strange and unfamiliar place.
Richard Gayle VanTyne, Sr. was an uncomplicated man, which is not to say that he was simple. He was more a man of paradox: brilliant, yet driven by common sense. Strong, yet intuitively empathetic. Stubborn, yet with a willingness to admit wrong (which was not often). Uncomplicated, yet complex.
From him I learned the value of hard work and self-reliance. In my childhood, I rarely saw a tradesman in our house as my dad stepped up readily to take on any task. TV repair, plumbing, construction, animal husbandry, auto repair. He did it all. I helped him with countless projects in the garage and around the house - holding flashlights, finding screwdrivers, turning the ignition, holding boxes of Christmas lights as he hung them on the house. It was only when I grew up that I realized how much more quickly he could have completed his projects had I not been so helpful. But I know that those times were about he and I as much as the task at hand. As I think about my childhood, I go back to those places and those moments.
He was far from perfect - he walked several feet in front of the rest of us. He ignored what we were saying when we was interested in something else. I'm told he was incredibly difficult to work for, as he was quite self-assured with his mastery of electrical engineering. He frequently exercised bad judgment with the electronic prank devices he built for me and encouraged me to take to elementary school.
Our family camping trips were filled with home-made accessories - a crude fresh water sink in our pop-up, a camp kitchen, a trash bag toilet. Our days would end with all four kids and mom and dad crammed into a tiny camper, listening to stories of his college days, his days in the Army, his variety of fancy cars in his youth. He ignored our cries of having heard them a million times and just launched into them again and again. Sadly he rarely spoke of what was a somewhat privileged but quite unhappy childhood.
The Spring before his illness came to light, I had decided to fly him to Utah to drive with me across the southwest in my convertible sports car. Along with several of my like-minded friends, we sped through the mountains and deserts of Utah and Arizona in part to celebrate his 70th birthday. I relished the time in the car - the idle banter, the deep topics and the quiet times just being with him. I later appreciated the fact that we did not know of his imminent sickness, as it would have added an unfair gravity to that time. As it was, we enjoyed each moment that came without fear of "squandering" any minute on frivolity. Frivolity is underrated.
As his illness advanced, he never showed signs of discouragement. It was his nature to be optimistic, not naively but pragmatically - as if it did not occur to him to be pessimistic in life.
As a parent now myself, I often wonder if I'm creating those moments that will be forever cast within my child's memory. Am I her storyteller? Am I her dreamer? Am I such a father? I realize that it is not about measuring myself against him. That was not the lesson. It is that I have a lifetime of moments from which to draw and in that way, he taught me everything I needed to know. Work hard. Do it yourself. Tell stories. Be confident things will work out. Break the rules a bit. Know what you are talking about. Let her hold the flashlight.
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