Today, my brother, and I are writing about the same day from our past. Be sure to read his post.
On August 16th, 1977, my mother wrote the following quote in my baby book.
Benjamin’s and Matt’s daddy died tonight at about 7:30 p.m. He had bought a 1942 dump truck. He was going to start his own hauling business to make extra money for his family. He picked up the truck about 5:30 p.m. at Rancho Lynn in Corralitos. He drove it back to Aromas and took it up to Seely Ave to have Rick and Pam Fischer look at it. He knew the breaks were bad. But he thought he could make it in 1st gear down their driveway. Well he couldn’t. He tried to jump out and I’m not sure what caused his death. He died enroute to the hospital. Elvis Presley died the same day. I loved him. Sept. 1st would have been our 9th anniversary.
I was fourteen months and six days old on that day. That day which is still the most significant day in my life. A day that erased an entire person from my life, from my memory. Because of that day I don’t know my own father. I don’t know the sound of his voice. I don’t know the touch of his hands. I don’t know him at all. Often I forget he even existed.
Of course, logically I have always known that he existed. If people asked me about my father, I knew what to tell them. But emotionally, there has always been a gap. A gap between my experience and that of everyone else he touched. I have always been acutely aware of the impact my father’s death had on our family. The grief that was left behind. How that grief, old and muted, still exists today.
This is why my son Thomas, my father’s first grandchild, is named after my father. To honor their love or my father. To honor the love of his sisters, my aunts. To honor the love of my mother. Why it was so important to take little Thomas to see his great-grandmother so soon after he was born. So important to put that Thomas in her arms. To remind all of them that while so much was lost, not all was lost.
And yet, because of that day, I ask myself questions like, “who would I have been if he had lived? Would I like that version of me? Would I be married to Liz? Would I have Thomas and Caroline?” Dangerous questions. Crazy questions. Questions that make a tragedy just a simple fact. Because, honestly, at times that’s what it is to me.
Then there are moments, moments that happen every day, like when I walk through door after work and little Thomas begins to tell me a story, bobbing his head up and down, and walking in a circle while Caroline hops towards the door yelling “Da-eee, da-ee”. The four year old Thomas. The two year old Caroline. Both older than I was on that day. The thirty-three year old me. Older than he was on that day. Them living a moment with their father that I never had with mine. And me living a moment with my children that my father never had.
In those moments, I see me, the little me. I see what I lost. Also, I see him. I see what he lost. What he misses everyday, even now. In those moments I mourn for him. In those moments I feel it, the grief that has surrounded me and my family for thirty-two years. I feel the love they all have for him.
Thirty-two years ago today Thomas Dwight Henry died leaving behind a wife and two young sons. And a legacy. This one’s for you dad. I may not have known you, but I know you.
31 Comments
Amazing post, dude. And I *think* this is my first time here. I had no idea you and Matt are actual brothers. I hope you’re the good-looking one because Matt? Yeah, not so much.
Here’s to your dad *raising glass*. Clearly he left behind a legacy that anyone would be proud of.
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This brought tears to my eyes…
So sorry that you never got to experience things with your dad, But I think that is why you so treasure every moment with your children. Thanks for sharing, now I’m off to see what your bro had to say…..
@1mcmommy
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This is a beautiful post, and one about something else we have in common. My dad died when I was 11. Thankfully, I knew him, but there’s something about experiencing that kind of loss as a child that’s different than any other loss you can experience later. I’m 33 now, the age he was when he died. Freaks me out. I wonder the same things you wonder — about how my life would be different if he were around or even if he had died later, when I was an adult, after I’d gotten to know him as an adult.
You’re a great dad; your dad would’ve been proud.
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Beautiful post my friend, beautiful post. I knew pieces of this story, but it’s not the same anymore. Tons of hugs to you today.
Obviously these are just words and it may not mean anything, but I’d bet that he’d be extremely proud of the man you turned out to be. Maybe that’s more important than who you’d be had he been alive?
I hope today you make great memories with Liz, Thomas and Caroline.
*raising my glass (okay coffee mug) to your dad today*
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This kills me. When Catie was born, I had a recurring nightmare about Dave dying, and I’d be left with this little baby all by myself. It was horrible, I’d wake up crying every time. After reading this, I sort of want to give your mom a hug.
I’m so sorry for your loss (and for Matt’s). This post is a really great tribute to your dad.
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I know he would have had a huge impact on your life had he lived, but he still helped shape who you are. I’m so sorry you lost him, especially so young. But you are such an amazing person, and a wonderful dad – it’s hard to imagine you any other way.
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What a beautiful tribute you are to your father.
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This all rang so true for me. My dad died when I was eight. He was 37. None of my own children are eight years old yet, but I anticipate with a little bit of dread. I had a hard time when I turned 37 myself. I know I would be so very different if he had lived.
If only blogs were around in the 70’s and my dad was smart enough to have one. I would do just about anything for something like that.
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Ben, I left a comment on Matt’s blog addressed to both of you. Someday I need to take the time and write more than the comments section allows me to. I need to tell you more about your Dad, and what I’ve seen of him in both you and Matt. Actually, it’s days like today that it’s almost an obsession that I make sure his memory is kept alive. I am certain that he would be so proud of both you and Matt. And I am certain that his four grandchildren would be loved to pieces!
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What a beautiful, and very touching tribute to your dad! Just think how honored he would have been to read it! Hugs!
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What a beautiful, wonderful post. We named our firstborn after my father in law’s brother who died at a very young age. Decades had passed since his brother died but we were the first to use his name. The reaction family members had upon meeting this boy who had the grieved-after boy’s name (even if only as a middle name) was stunning and I was even more glad we made that choice.
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Last night, your bro made me cry. Tonight you made me cry. But your aunt? She just made me bawl! Beautiful post. You rock. I’m pretty sure you know that but just in case. ;)
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What a lovely post. Your father would be so proud of you and of Matthew.
And that’s one of the sweetest cousins pictures I’ve ever seen. So sweet – the girls holding hands, the Monk winking, Thomas looking angelic and mischievous. Perfect.
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…and we took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference, to paraphrase Robert Frost.
He did get to have those moments, tender moments with you and your brother. Your mutual excitement when you realized he had driven in the driveway. A six year old would throw open the front door, a dalmatian would run out and a wee toddler, still unsteady on his feet would stagger outside to greet daddy.
What might have been? I do know that it would have been very different from what it is today because change was forced upon us. Grieve not for what might have been, rejoice for what IS. Carpe Diem!
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I can appreciate yours and your brother’s posts about your Dad, having lost my Dad when I was eleven. The first milestone hit me when I turned the same age that he was when he died. I’m sure the next one will hit me when my girls are the ages that my sister and I were when he died. I’m glad you both wrote about this, and how it weaves into your own parenting.
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This was so touching Ben, thank you for sharing it. You are a wonderful Dad to Thomas and Caroline. Your Dad would be so proud. xoxo
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Your post is lovely.
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And I said this on Matt’s post, this is extra eery cuz I know EXACTLY where your dad bought that truck. Like I think I know the people, because they were my neighbors, and there’s only one family up that driveway. The world is small.
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Thank you so, so much for sharing this.
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Beautiful words.
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I’m so, so, sorry for you loss. May God grant you a long and healthy life with your children.
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Beautiful post. Just beautiful.
xo
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Thank you for sharing this story. Very touching.
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This is such a touching post. I cannot imagine what it must feel like to have no memory of your dad. I’m visiting, following a link from Matthew’s blog, and I’m glad I did. You guys would both have made your father proud!
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What a beautiful post. Thank you for sharing. It is great how your family kept his memory alive in and through you and your brother.
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8/16/46 My dad’s birthday. I spent what would have been his 63rd birthday going through the mountain of his remaining things in my garage. xo
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I needed a couple days in between reading the two posts. Because I’m so incredibly happy to have both you and Matt in my life and I regret so much that you didn’t get the time with your dad that I had with mine. Even the less-good parts.
But I also know that you are who you are, in part, because of what happened in your childhood. And I can’t be sorry that the person you became is who you are, because he’s my friend. :-)
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Oh Ben,
I’m sorry. I understand the what ifs. Like you, I know how one day, the loss of one person shapes the rest of your life.
I mourn for you too, my friend. Big hugs.
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Big *HUGS*. Very touching entry. Great photo of the kids.
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This is a really touching post. My father died when I was seven. It was also sudden. I also didn’t really know him. I don’t know that I have any actual memories of him. It’s hard, huh? I like what you say about “knowing” him though. That’s really nice.
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I think that when we lose a parent at any age we question if we would be the same person without the loss. I can’t imagine losing a parent so young. To not have those memories, to be without, to live in an imaginative state about what your father was like. I was 20 when I lost my own father. Suddenly. On Father’s Day. And I sit here, 31 and 3 kids later, missing him terribly. Wondering if I would have the life I have now if he were still here. Knowing that my mother’s life would be completely different. And knowing, most of all, that my children will never have a grandfather, that they will never feel the presence of that man, my father. That they will never hear his jokes, nor his laughter, nor his terrible singing voice. I only hope that they inherit some of his wit and wisdom, just through the DNA.
Loss hurts. There are really no words. Though we try and try to define it, to encompass it somehow.
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