On being comfortable in yourself

Opening the closet.

That's what did it.

It's interesting what triggers the memories and starts the train of thought careering down the line, snatching you into a bout of reverie.

When I opened Dad's closet the day after he died, I looked at the row of nice suits and sport-coats he had.  I was looking for his uniform, as that was what he was going to wear for the rest of his corporeal existence.

Not there.

Next room.  Some of Mom's stuff, but not much.  No uniform, certainly.

Next room.  More suits.  Nice ones.  Too bad Dad and I weren't a physical match, even before I became a walking shade tree.  My wardrobe would have been seriously enhanced.  Ah, there's the uniform.  Whew!

Stepping back, it hit me.  Dad, those last 15 years or so, had finally let go of Colonel Donovan, and gotten comfortable in himself, as "Mr. Rotary," as a grandfather, and most recently as a great-grandfather, albeit to my lasting sorrow, he just missed actually seeing his great grandson Miles. 

One of his Rotary friends told me at the reception following the funeral about an conversation she'd had with Dad after he'd told everybody he was going to be a great-grandfather.  She asked him, "Hows it feel to know you're going to be a great-grandfather?"  His answer?  "I don't have any problem with being a great-grandfather.  It's thinking of John as a grandfather that has me bemused." 

It's the little things like that which still cause me to seize up.

Anyway, when Dad retired in 1975, (on the same day as I joined the Army because it wasn't big enough for the two of us, he said...), Dad bought himself a linen suit.  It was something he'd apparently wanted for a long time.  Dad had an image of himself as a retired officer and educational administrator. 

The salesman must have laughed his ass off as Dad walked out with that suit.

Dad wore it to some social events.  And looked liked he'd stepped right out of the 20's.  People laughed at him.  Out loud.  Not something that proud man took well. 

Hey, he'd just spent 27 years wearing the prescribed clothing of his profession, and his sense of civilian fashion was in stasis.  He put his social life on hold for a while, much to Mom's chagrin, as he worked through the embarrassment.

He finally did work through it, and found trustworthy salespeople to help him get conservative but current clothes.

Dad was a packrat.  A very organized packrat (that's the part of the gene I'm missing).  He kept all his Rotary badges.  And mounted them on a plaque.  Just as he had done with all his unit crests from his Army career. And from 1974 through to about 1998 they all say "Colonel Tim Donovan."   But then they just started saying, "Tim Donovan."

At that point, Dad was finally comfortable in himself. 

He was "Mr. Rotary." 

Make no mistake, he had to be something.  Dad not being involved in some form of community service is literally something I cannot imagine.  Nope. Don't have the brain cells that could reconcile that image.

I relate because it has been very hard to me to let go, too, and lord knows I didn't have a career the likes of Dad to hold onto.  Of course, unlike Dad, I never really left the fold, seeing as how I've worked for the Army (albeit laundering the money through another set of hands) for the 10 years since I retired. 

It's time I got comfortable in myself.  It would make life easier for SWWBO, I'm thinking.

Look at him there, with my sister and her husband, about two weeks before he died.

That's a man comfortable in himself.



It's time for me to get there, too.

Picture courtesy the Rotary Club of Columbia, Missouri, and their tribute to Dad webpage.