The living years: When every day on top of the ground is good

I often wish I could be more like many others, like those who can put aside loss more easily than I. Or maybe it just looks that way, and they do indeed feel the loss, but manage not to show it.
The American Psychological Association says that the resilience many display around loss or bereavement is multifaceted, based on their state of mind. Are they under pressure through finances, relationships, or work? Do they have compassionate support systems? Or do they consciously manage stress?
I’m fairly certain that I would approach those positively, yet I do still have that little time of reflection that always turns somewhat maudlin, and I finish up red-eyed, if not weepy, and like the Mike Rutherford song, ‘The Living Years,’ says, “I wasn’t there that morning, when my father passed away. I didn’t get to tell him all the things I had to say.”
I don’t know if I would, or could, have said much, but I see it as a lost opportunity.
In fact, I was en route back home to see Dad, when he called me... and the only part of the conversation I can remember is him saying... “I love you Ray.”
Because although I know he did... he had never said so. It was then, no surprise, when, still travelling, I got ‘the call’ from my sister Sue, who didn’t even need to tell me the bad news.
Today, June 7, is the anniversary of losing my father, seven years ago now. My oh my... how the time has flown. He was a giant of a man physically, 6’ 2” in his prime, strong and athletic, he had excelled during his youth at tennis, basketball, rugby and darts. His later-life sporting passion, though, was horse racing, and he was a modestly successful horse owner and trainer.
Dad was a long way from perfect, and I often thought ill of him as a kid, especially when he gave me a slap around the ear.
However, I was to learn that he was preparing us for what was still a pretty harsh world, where little was given, where to take was unforgivable, and you had to know the do’s and don’ts of community and society, who to respect, who to ignore, and the danger of making bad decisions.
As the song goes, “Every generation blames the one before, and all of their frustrations come beating at your door. I know that I'm a prisoner to all my father held so dear. I know that I'm a hostage, to all his hopes and fears. I just wish I could have told him in the living years.”
I wish I had been able to say that it has helped me, being a prisoner to the things he valued, and a hostage to what worried him, I just wish I could have told him... but men rarely do feelings... and even more rarely... do we share them.
Our minds are “filled with imperfect thoughts, stilted conversations, we talk different languages,” we didn’t dislike or lack tolerance for each other, we just saw life differently. Not a lot differently, I might add, as we had a lot in common, and my big takeaway from that is that if we couldn’t bridge that gap to share feelings, hopes and fears, how on earth are today’s youth ever going to?
Dad, as much as he would have liked to have had more, lived life on his own terms, with the irony of homespun philosophies that, ironically, live on in me, such as... “Every day on top of the ground is a good one,” and while I miss him dearly, I’ll take comfort in knowing he had 89 years of ‘good ones.’