Eulogy for the Living, Part 1 (Donald R. Witt)

Much of my father's life has been devoted to keeping my mother warm. His gifts to my mother over the years have included sweaters, slippers, a remote starter for her car to warm it up on cold mornings, a heated towel rack, and, my personal favorite, a homemade heated toilet seat during the early years of their marriage when they lived in a mobile home. If you know my mother, you know how appropriate these gifts are.

This is typical of how my father shows he cares. He pays attention and takes care of his family without verbalizing his feelings much, but it always came through clearly. When he did verbalize, though... One of my treasured possessions is a letter he wrote me in my first weeks of college to tell me how empty the house (well, my room, I guess, since my brother and mother were still home) seemed with me gone. I also treasure the book Butterfly Kisses and Bittersweet Tears, a set of father-daughter stories in which he underlined meaningful passages.

Although he doesn't say it often, his big heart is apparent. He has spent about 20 years worth of his limited vacation time driving to Appalachia to improve people's homes. He also adopted (although my old friend Andrew would say "abducted") and loved the neighbor's neglected dog-like cat, Pooch.

Dad and I shared a joy in cars. Mom always said that proof of his love for me, his firstborn, was that he gave up his two-seater Porsche for something that would hold a baby seat. He waited almost two decades before indulging himself that way again. After buying the Alfa Romeo, he very generously let me drive it on a regular basis (the only one in the school!), and he almost never complained that the tank was always empty when we swapped.

I wasn't able to take a car to college (something I selfishly whined about way too much), but it led to one of the best discoveries of my life. Dad was often the one to drive me to and from Charlottesville for school breaks. On one occasion, he accompanied me to a Friday evening beer and music festival, and I had to leave him talking to my friends while I went to the restroom. I hurried, feeling guilty about leaving him on his own, and returned to find him talking easily with my friends. He hadn't been uncomfortable at all. He drove me back to Roanoke that night, sharing stories about his college days (taking the train to Manhattan from college at night and coming back in the morning, "borrowing" trays from the dining hall to go sledding), and I came to the startling and pleasant realization that if I'd known him in college, we might have been friends.

A realization that took much longer and didn't come in a flash was that we could be friends anyway. I admire his dedication to the things he considers important and share many of his interests (or at least appreciate his dedication). We share a love of wine and music and a dedication to our work. Like me, he likes to read (he gravitates toward Christian history books). He loves to sing, has a playful streak that often comes out as goofiness with his grandchildren, and has been a long-time dedicated servant to Windsor Hill United Methodist, his church home of nearly 40 years. He has a strong sense of civic duty, lending his talents to the county planning commission and creating recreational trails to improve the lives of his fellow Roanokers.

Like the best friends, he lets me when I ought to be doing things differently. (He shares this characteristic with my brother.) When I'm done being mad about my will being thwarted, I grudgingly become grateful because it's always for my own good. His advice is generally good, though often bolder and riskier than what makes me comfortable. (I try to remember his advice that doing what makes me uncomfortable expands my "comfort zone.")

I consider myself very lucky that my father is someone I like and admire, and I started writing this "living eulogy" a few months ago, for no better reason than that I was in a "writing mood." It seemed appropriate to finish it today, on the 66th anniversary of his birth, to show my love for him. Happy birthday, Dad!

Plus, I'm too late to send a card.