chasing answers newsletter #59

Happy Father's Day!

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly-that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” - Anne Lamott

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Happy Sunday and Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there!

If you're fortunate enough to still have your dad around, be sure to pay him a visit, or at the very least, give him a call. He'll be glad you did. And someday, you will be too.

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What will you pass on?

On September 8, 2019, the thing I had dreaded my entire life happened.

I lost one of my parents.

At 62 years old, my Dad suddenly and unexpectedly passed away.

The man I had more disagreements with than any human being on the planet but who also had stood up for me and defended me more than any other was gone.

The idea of losing a parent was always unfathomable to me, and it was every bit as bad as I expected.

Not only had I lost someone, but I had also lost something. I had lost a connection to a simpler life that my Dad had never left behind.

My Dad was old school. He was a hunt and skin his own food, fix it himself instead of calling a repairman, screw your protein shake and give me a jack and coke, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke type of guy.

Dad was born in 1956, but in many ways, you would have thought he had been born in 1856. He grew up living off the land. My Grandma had a garden that supplied all of the family’s vegetables, and my Grandpa spent weekends during hunting season making sure there was enough meat stockpiled to get through the year.

While my Dad did evolve with the times a little, no one was going to pull the old school out of him. When he died, his freezer was full of deer, goose, duck, and pheasant meat. All of which he had personally harvested.

He would go on weekend trips to hunt for wild mushrooms, then spend hours cleaning and preparing them just right, using family recipes passed down for generations.

While he was a hunter and took down more than his fair share of animals, no one respected nature and wildlife more. His relationship with the land reminded me of something akin to that of the Native Americans—a deep, profound respect with an almost religious sentiment.

He must have seen 10,000 whitetail deer in his life, but every time he saw one, it was as if it was the first time. There was a child-like enthusiasm that would both make me shake my head and smile.

And nothing would light a fire under him like someone wasting a kill. You ate what you killed and, in some instances, even wore it.

His favorite place in the world was an old hunting cabin in the mountains of Pennsylvania, where my family hunted for decades. Sitting on thousands of acres and owned by a family friend, it was my Dad’s playground.

The cabin, like my Dad, was basic and straightforward. In the middle of the mountains. No electric. No running water. Heated by the wood you chopped.

You bathed in a makeshift shower in the back of the cabin with two five-gallon buckets, one with holes drilled in the bottom, and water collected from the spring in front of the cabin. He was taking cold showers before they became the magic cure to the world’s productivity problems.

This was my Dad’s dream home. Simple and surrounded by nature.

While I never became the hunter my Dad was, I did inherit his love and respect for nature. And his penchant for escaping into the wilderness, away from all the distractions of today’s modern world.

He did his part to make sure this was the case. As a young kid, instead of bedtime stories, we studied bird books. One page at a time. The first time through, with the names uncovered. On the second pass, it was my job to remember the names while he hid them beneath his fingers.

I’ve forgotten the names of more birds than most people will ever know.

I had my first pair of binoculars before I could ride a bike. We had more binoculars than people in our house, and my Dad kept a pair in every vehicle just in case he unexpectedly stumbled upon some wildlife.

Growing up this way, I always had a love of the outdoors. But the older I get, the stronger that love grows.

With each year that passes, my appreciation for the natural world and this simple kind of life deepens as I find myself rebelling more and more against many of today's societal norms.

And nowhere do I feel as close to my Dad as when I am out in nature. It's as if he's there beside me. Each interaction with wildlife feels like a hello from somewhere unknown. Oddly enough, I sometimes feel closer to him now than when he was here.

This appreciation for the world around me is the greatest thing my Dad could have left me. Not only did we enjoy it together, but he has given me something I can enjoy for the rest of my life. Something I can pass on and share with my daughter. And in many ways, something I can still share with him.

My Dad and my daughter watching some bald eagles circle the field next to my house, just six days before he passed away.

My Dad’s favorite pair of binoculars, which are now my favorite and tag along with me wherever I go.

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I hope you all have a great week!

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Thank you for reading, and if you liked what you read, please share it with friends.

randy