David HAROLD Dawson

DED_GiveThanks_03

When my dad was about 4 years old, he was asked to give a 2 ? minute talk in Sunday School. His mother was a school teacher and a very proper one at that. So, she helped him prepare the best 2 ? minute talk any child of that age had ever given. At the appointed moment, the person directing Sunday School announced that they would now hear a 2 ? minute talk by David Dawson. My dad just sat there. He didn't get up. Somewhat nonplussed and thinking my dad had not heard her, she returned to the lectern and announced again that David Dawson would now deliver a talk, cueing his presence at the lectern to deliver what he had so ardently been prepared for. My dad just sat there. Not one budge. The person directing Sunday School then approached my dad in his seat and asked his name for confirmation, to which he replied, "David HAROLD Dawson." She returned to the lectern and announced that David Harold Dawson would be giving a 2 ? minute talk. My dad got up from his seat, mounted the steps to the lectern that were there for kids his size, and commenced delivering the speech of his life. At least up to that point.

As I think about the things I am thankful for, I consider my dad, who passed away about 15 months ago. He and I were like oil and water. His philosophy when trouble came was to "fade into the woodwork." Mine was to confront things head on. He was introverted and did not like large groups unless they were family, although he tolerated them. I thrive in a group setting, especially among friends over an excellent meal. We never really got along and most conversations descended into an argument, and frustration for either or both of us. That's not to say my dad was not a good man. He was the best. He was not a tyrant - he and I just didn't see things the same way.

For many years I was bitter about this relationship and carried it on my sleeve. I lamented the fact that my relationship with my father, was not like I saw between other fathers and their sons - more like friends who shared and enjoyed similar interests. But alas, that was not to be.

Long after he retired and several years before his passing, I realized that he loved history. Especially early American history. I too loved history. Especially early American history. As I read a book on the subject, I would inquire of my dad as to whether he had read the same book or not. If so, we would discuss it. It was something we could talk about without getting frustrated with one another. If he had not read the book, I would buy a copy and send it to him, without expectation. He would read it, and next time we were together, we had something more to talk about. Our conversations about history were brief. There were no fireside chats late into the evening. It was the extent to which we could finally bond and the measure of that bond could not pushed or strained. It had to be natural, organic.

Slowly, I began to realize that my dad was not changing. I was. The bitterness I wore on my sleeve melted away over time. I came to love and respect my dad. Not as I observed how other fathers and sons did, but rather, in our own unique way and through our own unique language founded on the interest in history.

In the weeks before my dad passed away, I had the privilege of being a caregiver for him. I had the opportunity to care for him in ways I would have rejected before the change in me about our relationship, before I took responsibility for it. I was able to render service, to do for my dad in his final days and weeks, that which he did for me in my first days and weeks. I tended to his hygiene needs, fed him, administered his medicines, changed his sheets, etc. He was dying from dementia, we found out later as a result of tau grain syndrome, similar to Alzheimer's.

Many times I sat by his bed and asked if he remembered certain events in his life. Every once in a while he would nod his head yes and smile, or grimace, depending on the circumstance of the event when he recalled it. Often, his remembrance was accompanied by the phrase, "That was crazy," which was about all I got out of him. When he would shake his head no, or verbally express that he did not remember the event, I would ask him if he would like me to tell him the story of it. Again, I would get a silent nod. More times than not, he would fall asleep as I told the story. I was never offended by this. It was his time. He was preparing to leave his mortal shell. My presence was not about me, but about me serving him.

I love my dad and am grateful for the way in which we bonded the last few years of his life. It wasn't over football games on Saturday afternoons or Monday nights. It wasn't over a drink in a pub or at a tailgate party. It wasn't about the things I was at first jealous of, regarding other fathers and their sons. It was about how through my own willingness to take responsibility and be open to a way for us to have a relationship in our own unique way, that we could.

I look forward to seeing my dad again some day, and having a conversation again about history. For that opportunity, I am truly grateful.