A Dad Like Terry
I had never met a dad like Terry.
A big guy. A real dude. He did big dad things like make wine in his garage, had forever dirty hands, handled a knife in the kitchen, preferred everything spicy, wore a cowboy hat for special occasions, built things, held onto lumber for a wierd amount of time under a tarp in the front yard, smoked cigarettes silently in the garage thinking about the universe or nothing at all, had a Falcon Ranchero that he drove around town like a tank, read the news every morning, knew the weather each day, danced to old country blues with his wife in the kitchen, and drank coffee as water.
Nick and I were dating and I had complicated feelings about marriage. He brought me to California and I knew this was home. He was so many things I wasn't. The way his dad looked at his mom is how I wanted him to look at me when we grew old together.
When we moved into the Berkeley house we thought we'd be there a few months. In most cultures, you live with your husband's family and you bring hardly anything of your own. We stayed almost three years and I couldn't even remember what I had in storage. When we left, we didn't go far. From sitting outside our bedroom door in Berkeley to our homecoming in Marin with El Cerrito in between, I never wanted to be too far away again.
I'm lucky because I have lots of dads. But I never had one like you. I'm heartbroken but so deeply grateful. Love you Pop.
Chev