On Becoming an Orphan

Some things just have to be said. I was trying to avoid posting sad news on the blog, but it seems I can't get back to talking about knitting until I honor "my old guy".

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/dfw/obituary.aspx?n=david-james-andrews&pid=125828660

My father passed away last week, just after the stroke of midnight on his 90th birthday. During the last year, when he said he might not be around much longer, I always replied that he had to make his 90th because I was throwing a party. Then after the cake, we would discuss 91. Well, he made it. It was quite a shock to me to lose him now, although I suppose at 90, one shouldn't be surprised at anything. But what seemed to be a mild pneumonia turned out to be something much more serious. He was surrounded by those he loved, a good end to a good life.

My father LOVED his family, they were very close. Eight boys and one girl. The two youngest are missing from this photo taken when my father was 4, second from the right.

His mother saw him off to war with the Air Force in 1942.

Here he is in the fifties with his brother Dana and Greer Garson.

The last few years, there were only two of the tribe left, my father and his youngest brother Steve. Now there is only Steve. Although Steve couldn't travel from California to be with his brother that last week, he called every day and the two reminisced with laughter and tears.

There was an honor guard to send off this veteran of two wars.

My father certainly wasn't perfect, but he never told a lie and he never intentionally hurt anyone (although that bit about not telling even a white lie sometimes had that effect). He was an idealist. He remembered every date of everything ever. We shared a love of words and language and history and art and classical music. We had crossword puzzle challenges; even the last few months when he had lost much of that incredible memory, we would do the puzzles together. When I quit piano for ballet, he was so furious that he sat down with my books and taught himself to play, only Chopin for the first 25 years until he retired and finally began lessons. Perhaps three days before he died, my neice and I were sitting with him near midnight. Suddenly he began joking and teasing us and the nurse and it was my father of the old days, sharp and lucid and funny. After half an hour of this amazing gift, he fell asleep and the next day it was gone, but what a lovely memory he gave us.

My friend José Feghali played a Chopin nocturne at his service, so beautiful it brought everyone to tears. I miss him.