My dad ended his life when I was thirteen. Consequently, I knew him for a shorter amount of time than my older siblings did and a little longer than my younger brother did. 

Yet, I knew Dad long enough to learn and remember some of the lessons he taught us. 

Imprinting Lifelong Lessons

All of us underwent the same rudimentary training that turned us into civilized human beings. For instance, we were taught to keep our elbows off the dinner table while eating. If we happened to forget, Mom, the table manners police, swiftly delivered a poke with the tongs of her fork to our elbows as a reminder. 

Other social training included giving a firm handshake while looking the other person in the eyes. This gesture promoted and instilled in us a message that conveyed a respect for the other person as well as respect for ourselves.    

We were also taught the proper way to answer the phone. “Macek’s residence. This is Terese. How may I help you?” It seemed like a lot of words to use when most everyone else that I knew got away with just saying, “Hello.” Yet Dad, I think, wanted us to shine brighter than the rest.

Other training toward growing into bright, shining and outstanding citizens included no gum chewing and saying, “Yes,” instead of “Yeah.” 

Unlike some of my older siblings, Dad died before I was old enough to receive his counsel concerning my choice of a career, college or a mate. Unlike some of my siblings, he died before I was old enough to rebel and feel his wrath. 

Last Message

Dad’s last message to me was, “I want you to know that I love you and when you grow up, I know you will be someone special.”  

We were sitting on the front porch of our house in Durango, Colorado. It was a chilly winter afternoon. My gangly body no longer fit on Dad’s lap, but still he motioned for me to sit on his knee. 

He told how he had to go away to get well, that our family would split up; Mom, my little brother and I going back to Nebraska to live with Grandma, while older siblings would live with other families of friends. 

At the time, I didn’t understand. I didn’t know he was an alcoholic, that he was depressed, that he’d already attempted suicide and had failed. Now, he was going away to a hospital where he hoped he’d find the help he needed.

His last message to me was the one he knew I’d need to see me through my future, one that did not include him. He wanted me to know that he loved me. 

Why Bother Getting the Message?

Why bother getting the message? Though at times, Dad’s training seemed strict and unnecessary, he knew what was up ahead for all of us. I think he hoped that we’d get the message that mattered the most; he loved us.