Let me tell you about pretty much the most awesome person I know. My dad has always been my hero, my idea of what's good, what's right and just how a person should be. It sounds cliché, but ask a thousand people that he knows and I guarantee not one will have a bad word to say about him. I recently thought hard to come up with one time in my 37 1/2 years that I was even a little miffed at him. My brother and I used to set up a rickety old picnic bench in our driveway – aka our basketball court – from which we would launch ourselves into thundering slam dunks. Uh, not safe and he finally put the kibosh on it, much to the Mole and I's dismay. That's it. That's the one time.
My dad worked outside in a roofing supply yard for much of my life. He usually worked with guys that weren't even half his age and amazed them with his strength and work ethic. He was not one to deliver philosophic phrases – he preferred advice like "Don't step in any dry mud holes" and "Don't kill any dead snakes" – but influenced those around him with his actions. He turned 70 in December, but still worked five, sometimes six, days per week, loading and unloading trucks in whatever elements Mother Nature decided to throw at us. He never complained but would admit sometimes how brutal working in the cold was when I asked. He worked up until the Friday before the Monday doctor's appointment that he finally let me schedule after the pain in his side became so bad. When making the appointment, my dad asked me to make it after 5 so he put in a day's work first, slinging around 90-lb. bundles of shingles. His work ethic was incredible and I can only hope to carry on the way he showed me was right.
I worked as a caddie at a golf course in high school, which meant I was usually up before the sun most summer mornings. Dad was always up too and I smile thinking about those early, early morning conversations we'd have as he drove me to the course. When I got home after a long, hot day on the links, he'd quip, "How much did we make?" He could always make me laugh.
My dad also made my lunch every day throughout my high school days. A little ridiculous that a teenager couldn't make her own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (it was always PB&J)? Probably, but it was something special I didn't want to give up. I thought of Pops – my favorite nickname for him – today when I ate a peanut butter and sandwich with the kids. Good, but something was missing.
What a grandpa, too! Taylor and Michael adored their grandpa and would just run to him when we got to his house. He'd make trips up here to see them, too. Just a few weeks before he was diagnosed, he made the 45-minute drive up to our town after work to see Taylor play soccer. She was so happy that she had scored a goal for Grandpa. I still think the bag of Smarties he gave her on her birthday last year was one of her favorite gifts. Michael would just light up around Grandpa, too, walking around in one of his oversized hats, saying in a deep voice, "Hi, I'm Grandpa." I'm so happy they got to know the man that their Mommy loves so much.
I'm glad he didn't have to suffer very long, with his life here on Earth ending less than a month after his cancer diagnosis. My dad never, ever showed pain and to see him hurting was the hardest thing I've ever experienced in my life. He's in a much better place now, but I can't help but feel a little lost. I hope when he looks down on me from Heaven that I make him proud. I have always been and will always be proud of you, Pops. Thank you for everything.
Garland Thomas "Tom" Taylor
12/2/40 – 6/6/11
