Remembering my dad on Father's Day
My father, Don Rowley, died in October 2004. Earlier that year before he got sick, I wanted to do something special for him for Father’s Day. Rather than buy a gift that he probably would never use, I decided to write something about all of the things he taught me, my brothers, and sisters. I agonized over the task. Writing and rewriting it until every word was perfect. I finally finished it, titled in ‘My Father Taught Me’, and sent it to him. I anxiously waited for his response. He called a few days after he received it, thanked me, and told me how moved he was by what I had written. He was getting choked up a bit and I could tell he felt uncomfortable showing his emotions. Ending the call he said, ‘Not everyone gets to read their eulogy while they are still alive’. Here is an excerpt:
My father taught me many things. He taught me to read. He taught me the passion I still have today for the game of baseball. He taught my brothers and sisters the same. Not only did he teach his own children these things, he felt compelled to teach every youngster in the neighborhood. The only time he stopped pitching balls to anxious kids waiting their turn to swing the bat was when one of them struggled to hit the ball. Then he would have me or one of my brothers pitch while he got on his knees, wrapped his arms around the kid, helping him hold the bat, and shouted ‘you’re gonna make the pros’ when the kid finally made contact.
Children who’s fathers and mothers were too busy to spend time with them found a friend and a teacher with my father. My mother tells the story of the time a neighborhood kid came knocking at the door on a Saturday morning. She answered the door and the voice from a 5 year old boy said ‘Can Mr. Rowley come out and play?’
My father moved us from Baltimore to California when I was twelve to take another job. After I graduated from high school, I took a trip back to Baltimore to visit family and some of the neighborhood kids we grew up with. One day I connected with a friend that had lived down the street. The first thing my friend asked about was my father. He told me my father had taught him to ride a bike. He said his own father had tried once to teach him but had given up in frustration. He said my father noticed him one day trying to learn on his own and came outside to help. He said he kept falling and crying but my father running alongside and steadying him wouldn’t let him quit trying until he finally got it right. I never knew this. When I returned home, I asked my mother and brothers if they knew dad had taught the neighborhood kid to ride a bike. They all said no.
I miss my father. I think about him every day. I wish he was still here to teach things to my grandchildren.
