William R. Buckingham - Part 5, The Day Dad Died

Mom called in the late morning of April 20, 1985. There was a momentary silence after I said hello, then she said, “This is your Mom. I have some bad news. You father died this morning.” Her voice was matter-of-fact; her words, steely hard, without emotion. There was another silence as my mind fought to reject the meaning of her words. I don’t remember her saying anything more and I tried to fill the empty silence with reassuring words that meant nothing. I ask if anyone was with her. I don’t remember if she answered. I told her I’d get home as soon as I could arrange it.

Mom was in shock. They had been married for nearly fifty years, had shared a life through hard times and good - the Great Depression, World War II, raising two boys, working together at the Moose Lodge, vacations, travel, and the usual bouts of marital strife. Life as she knew it had come to an abrupt end.

Dad passed on a beautiful Saturday morning. He was in the front yard, on the west edge of their house when his heart failed, and he laid down on the grassy yard to die. Mom saw him laying there a short time later. He was on his back with his right arm laying over his chest, his left knee, bent slightly and pointing upward. He looked like he might have been napping, but Mom said she knew he was dead as soon as she got out to him.

I told my classes on Monday that I’d be leaving the next day, and would be out for the rest of the week because my Dad died. One of the students raised his hand and asked if I had been close to my father. I said, “No, not really”, and wondered immediately why I answered in such a way. It wasn’t a truthful answer; it was accurate. In truth, I had a good father-son relationship with Dad; it was accurate in that we had lived 4000 miles apart for the last eighteen years.

Dad was short by a month of turning seventy-three. I’m writing this when I’m a bit short of turning that age myself, so it seems to me that he died too young. I’d say that he had plans for things he did not get done.

“Buck”, as he was called by almost everyone (even Mom), would have described himself as a practical man, but his nature was positive - he saw the glass as half full. He seemed to always have a project going: planting a garden, planning a trip, or repairing a radio/TV. He was always ready to demonstrate his latest culinary discovery such as a new pizza recipe, or a Ruben sandwich.

A couple days later I stood before his casket during the funeral, reached out and touched his hand. It was stone cold and just as hard. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t there.
GO TO: Part 6, Dad's Resume