I don’t do well at the end of May. My father died on May 31, sixty nine years ago and I have thought about him every single year on the date of his death. It recently occurred to me that over time there have been fewer and fewer people who actually remember him. Even my younger brothers often have to ask me what he was like because they were so very young when he died. Because I was eight years old I am officially the keeper of stories about him when it comes to my siblings. Fortunately he was such an incredibly interesting man that I have many vivid memories of him but there are times when I wonder if my thoughts of him are totally accurate or just the adoration of a child. I speak of him because I do not want him to simply fade into the anonymity of history.
I try to describe my father to my daughters and my grandchildren who are very close to my father-in-law. I have to admit that sometimes I feel quite sad that he has been able to be so much a part of their lives while my own incredible father is only a kind of mythical figure who never fully takes shape in their minds. When I see them showering my father-in-law with love and kisses I imagine them feeling the same with the grandfather that they never knew. Because I witnessed how people enjoyed being around my father I am certain that he would have impressed his grandchildren and great grandchildren as well. He was a most interesting person who had barely make a mark on the world when his life ended so suddenly.
My aunts and uncles and older cousins often shared stories of their interactions with my father. I appreciated the information that they gave me. Their comments convinced me that my memories of him are not just snippets of adoration blown out of proportion from reality. He was indeed a Renaissance man who was so multidimensional that it is difficult to define his essence. He was an artist and a scientist, a poet and a builder, a scholar and a sports fan, an historian and an engineer, a beloved son, husband, father and friend.
Life is such a mystery. We humans never know why some people only live for a short time on this earth while others stay with us for decades. None of us know how long our own existence on this earth will last. Eventually we all have a date with destiny. Leaving this earth is inevitable and most of us hope that we will have made a positive impact before we go. My father had already been an overachiever in all that he attempted to do but I know that he had so much more to give this world and its people. I often imagine talking with him as an adult even as I remember how much he respected me as a child.
I suppose that my grandmother summed up his life better than anyone. She always boasted that he was a very good boy, a loving soul. There was a sweetness about him that permeated everything that he did. He celebrated life and people and had a way of making everyone feel important. Now I am among the last of the keepers of his memory and I fear that he will eventually be only an old time photo and a name on the family tree.
I always laughed that he had such a simple name, Jack Little, with no middle name, no pretentiousness, just an all American guy. He grew up in Oklahoma and Texas in whichever town his father landed work. He adjusted to the frequent moves and in fact became an inveterate traveller. Moving and seeing new people and places was a way of life ingrained in his soul. He surrounded himself with art and music and books and knew how to talk about all of those things. When the guys came around he was just as good at conversing about hunting, fishing and every kind of sporting event. He was thoughtful and loving in extraordinary ways. He was also still trying to decide exactly who and what he wanted to be at beyond age of thirty three.
My mother never remarried even though she was beautiful and had many would be suitors. My father was a difficult act to follow and she often boasted that it would have been difficult to accept a lesser person as a replacement for him. She remained devoted to him unto the day that she died.
So it is the end of May and once again I will endure that sick feeling of an eight year old who lost one of the most incredible persons who was part of my life. I will recall the trauma of that event knowing that I found ways to move on but never to forget. I will be grateful that I had such an incredible man as a mentor if only for a short time. My father’s wisdom and love has lived on in my heart. He gave me courage and showed me how to never settle for being less than I am. His spirit is so much a part of who I am.
I think of people that I know who lost their fathers as a child or lost a child as an adult. I feel a kinship with my mother and my grandmother. Between us was a deep bond of love for a remarkable man who was gone far too soon. I’ll keep telling the world who Jack Little was because I think it is quite important to keep his memory alive. Still, I wish that so many more would have enjoyed the pure bliss of knowing him.
Rest in peace, Jack Little. You were truly the best of us. I will always love you.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 