Today is my father’s birthday, Captain Cord Smith. He should be 76, yet succumbed to Stage IV lung cancer in February 2019. 

I’ve written bits and pieces since my Dad’s death and tucked away scraps of cocktail napkins and damp receipts while traveling or killing time at my favorite watering hole. Only to hide them in a bin somewhere with old journals filed with a salad bar of memories: ripe with sadness, tears and of course, sweet joy. I dug them out today on his birthday to revisit some of my thoughts from a year ago.

Writing is hard. Writing is excruciating painful and that is why so few actually do it or do it while imbibing copious amounts of ‘spirits’. Think Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Poe, and Poe who was also prone to other modes to numb his pain. It’s a long list of writers. 

When words flood, my mind turns to the quick visual of poetry as sentences can be hard to formulate in pain. I see how Finnegans Wake was a brilliant cathartic stream of consciousness; I secretly fantasize about writing everything like in similar fashion.

Several airplane cocktail napkins scribbles read:

Cool Dad concerts ~

First was Huey Lewis then Santana and Eric Clapton 3rd row, Diana Krall too

Rappahannock and Tappahannock, sailboats and marinas and that wind surfer. You even surfed that with our dog, canoeing and adventures.

You were a pilot but such funky guy. Your big loft held up by authentic railroad beams with those huge nails brought down from Pennsylvania. It became your office area retreat with Peter Frampton blasting and rowing machine, the custard yellow leather stool where you sat and wrote bills and typed on our first computer circa early 80s. I can still hear Stevie Wonder. I hear you strumming your guitars. I can see all the relics from your adventures: African spears, your college javelin, Azores, Spain, South American trips, weird little Viking and Icelandic knick knacks from all over the world.  I have some now. 

I see that loft so vividly still. I accept the anxiety of — most adjectives are insufficient to capture it all.

I smell Old Spice and Barbasol. I see the pocket tissue squares, not sure if my mom ironed them, I don’t remember that detail.  

You could play any sport and play it well, fix almost anything. I still hear your “dad-isms’ especially when my toilet is rising and clogged. “Righty-tighty-lefty-loosy”. “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.”

When I had Ravi I remember you saying so clearly, “Remember, you either spend happy money on your child, or sad money. Spend time with them, and you’ll spend the happy.”

As usual, he was right.

My dad was complex, he was a contradiction of science advocate and sensitive  ‘renaissance man’ all wrapped up into one. Parents are complex because all humans are.

The worst day of my life was the second goodbye visit to my father in the hospital. I had to catch my plane back home. I knew in my gut that was probably the last time I’d see him in person. I didn’t want to leave but obviously had to return to life in Los Angeles. 

He looked at me after so many lovely words which I’ll share someday, and said, “Go on now, catch your plane, tally ho!” 

Tally ho, Dad. Happy Birthday. I love you. I will keep the promise and continue to tell these stories.  – ‘Christie’