He lived for the moment
CHERRIL DOTY
“The only truly dead are those who have been forgotten.”
-- Jewish saying
How do we remember a life?
The last child of 10 born to a struggling immigrant family, my
father was also the last of his siblings to depart this earth. Two
years ago, when his three sisters had all died within days and weeks
of each other, he commented that he was the only one left. He added
that he intended to outlive them -- they had died at 98, 96 and 95.
His goal was 104 and he saw no reason not to reach it.
In a family of relatively short people, my father grew tall. He
began to play basketball as a youth and on graduating from high
school in Los Angeles, he received a scholarship to USC. A Southern
California All-American guard, my father always loved the game of
basketball.
His affection for the sport was only supplanted perhaps by his
love for golf in later years. In any game, he played to win. He liked
games and was good at them, and right to the end, he played to win.
Even the loss of his sight seemed not to deter him in this. And he
would never cheat ... ever.
And he didn’t seem to want much from his life, just the peaceful
existence of golf and his friends, a good meal, the occasional cigar.
He took pleasure in his wife’s rose garden, and the care with which
she tended it reflected in the care that she gave him as well. I
always thought that when he praised her virtues in respect to the
garden that this praise embraced all she gave him as well. He enjoyed
her love.
“Some clothes and his golf clubs.” That’s what my brother Anthony
said was the remaining evidence of my father’s life -- all that he
had. I like to think he left much more than that, and I think of the
things that my father bequeathed me. Of course, there are the genetic
details.
But it is the other things -- perhaps less concrete -- that I
think of now. I have my father to thank for my love of music,
especially opera and the lilting ballads of the ‘40s and ‘50s. I have
my father’s example of good-natured competition. I know his pleasure
in friends and good fellowship. I hold fast to his values of honesty
and integrity and a desire to never cheat anyone. I grasp tight his
enjoyment of life in the moment.
In the week before Christmas this year, my father, Ed Oram,
followed his usual exercise routine: 18 holes of golf three times a
week, alternating with a walk to the local coffee shop for breakfast.
The day he died was a coffee-shop day.
Though his sight was severely limited by macular degeneration, he
didn’t let it stop him from doing the things he wanted to do. My
father liked people and enjoyed easy patter with friends and
strangers alike. So I imagine him saying his “good mornings” as he
walked his usual route. I imagine the smile he mustered for his usual
waitress as he entered the coffee shop and sat down in his usual
booth. And then, while she was bringing his coffee, his heart simply
stopped beating.
Around the time he was turning 80, I tried to get an oral history
from him. I wanted to fit all those many pieces together -- to
remember his life. He announced, leaving no room for argument, that
he wasn’t “old enough for that yet.”
At 90, his enjoyment of life in the moments of living it was still
what mattered to him. I like to think that is what he was doing right
to the last.
* CHERRIL DOTY is a creative life coach and artist who loves
exploring the mysteries of life. You can reach her by e-mail at
cherril@cherrildoty.com or by calling (949) 251-3883.
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