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.