The Rev. Dr. Weenie

Several blogs ago, Cracker Lilo was sitting on her front porch (with a glass of cold, sweet tea or a mimosa, I like to think) when she asked me when my dad died. I have been mulling that answer ever since. Now, the factual answer is easy. The Rev. Dr. C. Rex died on December 26, 1997 between the hours of 9:30 pm and 11:00 pm. I was the last person to see him alive and I was the first person to see him dead. That's why I know the time. His last words (as far as anyone knows, anyway) were to me, telling me he loved me as I went to bed. The last words he heard (as far as anyone knows) were me telling him I loved him as I went to bed. This doesn't suck. It was a massive stroke, very fast, and so major we are actually quite relieved he didn't survive.

So what's hard about answering this question? Because I won't talk about his death without talking about his life. And how do you capture a life like his in a blog ~ even a long one? Let's try anyway, shall we? :)

Daddy was a presence. He loved a good, long laugh, a strong drink, a cigarette and a beautiful woman. I called him a Weenie and told him he was being weenie-istic. He adopted it as his personal nickname from me and would sign cards to me that way. He was more willing to love and accept than anyone I've ever known. In his office, he had a sign that read "Feminism Spoken Here." Physically, he was a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders (of the fried chicken fame). He was a college professor, a minister, a public speaker, and a singer. These four professions made for some interesting personality traits. As a minister, he was about Love and Acceptance. As a professor of communication studies, he was about communicating. His favorite line was "Never stop communicating. Communicate at the top of your lungs if you have to but don't stop communicating." As a public speaker, he was about meeting his audience where they were, not where he wanted them to already be. And as a singer, he was about passion.

We could play cribbage for HOURS as the world moved around us. He instilled in me a love of classical music and the tall ships. He was a sailor at heart and used to say he'd fought with Nelson at Trafalgar. He had originally wanted to be a Navy chaplain but, back in the day when rotator cuff surgery was still only a fantasy, failed the physical so often they finally told him to stop coming back. For which we are all eternally grateful because that's why his first love wouldn't marry him ~ she wanted to be an officer's wife. He was my staunchest defender, even more than I knew at the time. Once, one of his students asked me if I was ever jealous of the love and attention given to his students. All I could do was laugh. Because if you took all the love and attention he gave all of them ~ over 20 years worth of students ~ and added it all up, it still wouldn't come close to the love and attention he had for me and my sister.

He never hit me. Didn't believe in physical discipline. In fact, at one point we were doing a show together and had been cast as father and daughter. The director told him to swat my butt as his character shooed me off stage. He refused. He said "I've never hit her before in her life; I'm not going to start now." The place froze. The director took a deep breath and said, "Well, can you raise your voice and shake your finger in her face?" We all laughed as Daddy said "Oh yeah. I'm really good at that." So that's what he did. And the man could sigh in a way that would make me want to climb in a hole. Whenever I got in trouble (and did I ever get into trouble!) he would send me to my room. Then, after things had calmed down, would come in and sit on my floor with me and talk ~ just to make sure I understood why I had been punished. When I decided to get divorced, I told people my mother and sister would eventually forgive me but my father wouldn't have ~ because there would be nothing to forgive in his mind.

At 17, my mother found me crying in a corner of my room. I wouldn't move; could barely speak. She called my dad and he canceled his classes and came home. Slowly, he talked me into letting him come in, letting him sit on my bed, letting him sit on my floor with me, getting me to move to the bed, and then, finally, oh so finally, got me to a place where I could leave my room, with him holding my hand. I was hospitalized for depression the next day ~ and Daddy wrote me everyday we didn't have visiting hours.

He taught me to keep score in baseball, sing tenor in barbershop, and to know the difference between a fun practiacl joke and a cruel one. I know 7x8 = 56 because of his infinite patience.

Now, don't get me wrong. The man could get on my very last nerve. He was NO saint. Yet when we got pissed with and at each other, we dealt with it. As a minister, a public speaker, and a singer, the man had Lungs. I mean, you wanted sustained volume, he could give you sustained volume. When I was a child, I would start to yell because I was angry and he would ask "Do you really want to get into a yelling match with me?" And I would calm down and we would talk. Then I grew up and became a public speaker and singer myself. The next time he asked that question, I took a deep breath and answered back "Hell yes 'cause I'm Pissed!" And we went at it. We argued many times after that but he never asked that question again. I could hold my own.

Still, he managed to raise two daughters ~ one a Pagan and one bi-sexual and accept us both to the point of nonchalance. To the day he died, I'm not sure he understood how rare that was. To the day he died, I'm not sure he knew how rare He was.

In the almost eight years since he died, I have done things that I wouldn't have done while he was alive. Some of them good, that would make him very proud. Some of them not so good, that I know would make him sigh. Yet through it all, I know he loves me. That was NEVER even a question I had to ask. Still don't.

So, that's my dad. The Rev. Dr. Weenie. If you knew him, you're life was better for it. And if you never had the opportunity to meet him, just wait. You will. He's waiting on the other side. Go up, introduce yourself. He'll be the one who looks like a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders. You'll be met with a hug. I promise.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.