First Father's Day without...

Three Generation Photo:
Nephew/Grandson Jacob Niffin, Dad, and me

     It is Father’s Day. It is my first Father’s Day since my Father, Aram Martin Gavoor better known as Sonny, passed away on June 3.
     It has only been two weeks. At times it doesn’t seen that long and at others it seems like two years. Time moves differently, in funny ways, in times of grief or crisis. It is simply bent by the swirl of emotions.
     In perusing Facebook today, I saw postings of others honoring their fathers who passed away ten, fifteen, and twenty of more years. Their posts were touching and honoring the memory of their father. As they say, while the pain of loss eventually subsides, the hole in our lives remains. I mourn and miss my Dad for sure. At the same time, I have to be thankful that I had him just shy of 65 years. Those in the Facebook postings lost their Dads in their 30s and 40s. These same folks were the first to tell me it doesn’t matter at what age one loses a parent. I see their point for sure.
     With Dad’s passing, we were positively overwhelmed by the outpouring of love, memories, and condolences. As a renowned track coach in Armenian circles, he was a dynamic, sometimes larger than life, influence on many young people. Those who could came to the viewing or funeral and shared their memories while others called, texted, sent emails, or posted them on Facebook. They shared touching memories about how they never forgot what he had told them way back when and how that message or inspiration still guided them today. Other stories had we on the lighter side. People waited up to an hour and a half at the viewing. There were 220 people at the hokedjash (the traditional Armenian memorial dinner after the funeral). While we were mourning his passing, it was truly a celebration of his life, a life well lived.
     We, in the family, collectively wrote his obituary which was published in The Armenian Weekly. This post is not really about Sonny Gavoor the coach or community figure, but, as it is Father’s Day, more about Sonny being my Dad. As the emcee at the hokedjash, I gave my speech in between the other speakers. For the closing, I chose to, wanted to, and probably even had to share a moment that stood out in my mind. It was a simple memory but important to me. It was, certainly, cathartic for me but did not have the impact I wanted it to. In retrospect, it was a bit lame after all the great coaching vignettes. It was better suited for this venue but, let’s face it, I was not thinking so clearly at that time.
     Here is what I spoke about:

One of my fondest memories was back in 1967. It was in September barely a month and half after the riots that rocked the city. We were painting the outside of our first house, a two-flat house on Freeland, that we were then using as a rental property. The weather was glorious, the kind of September days we live for in Detroit with the bluest of skies, golden almost autumn sunshine, and temperatures in the low 70s with just a hint of fall crispness in the air. We painted. While we painted, we listened to baseball games on the radio. That year the Tigers were in a heated pennant race with the Red Sox and Twins. It was a Field of Dreams kind of memory. On different weekends we listened to the radio play by play by George Kell and the icon, the legend, Ernie Harwell. We painted and felt like were at the game. We didn’t talk at all during the game. Kell and Harwell did all the talking. We talked plenty before and after the games. I wanted the Tigers to take the pennant. Dad was a fan of both the Tigers and the Red Sox… oddly he never really favored one over the other at this time. In the weekends of painting, we listened to games against the Red Sox, Senators, Yankees and Angels. I have no recall who actually won they games. I remember the nailbiters against the Red Sox and we lost both of those games. The Tigers did not win the pennant, the Red Sox did. But we got a glimpse of the greatness the Tigers would display in 1968. Most importantly, it was a beautiful memory of baseball, fresh air, painting, and hanging out with my Dad.

     Later my wife, Judy, asked why I chose to share that story. It was a treasured memory to me, but I never asked myself why it was. When she asked me that question, I thought about it. I knew it was kind of a dud and I knew she felt the same way, hence the question. There were certainly many other memorable times and significant moments. Why did this one stand-out to the point where I wanted to share it with others? After some reflection, I decided this was important to me because it was a rite of passage kind of memory.
     I was all of fourteen years old. It was the first time, that we did something when he didn’t have to really tell me what to do or how to do it. It was the first time, I felt I was an adult and we were working together as men. I was about the same age, a little older, as when Jewish boys are Bar Mitzvahed. It was the first time I did not feel like a boy around my Dad. I do believe my relationship with him changed from being a kid toward being more adult. That was pretty cool and why this memory sticks out.
     The only thing we didn’t do was crack a beer at the end of day… which he did. Today, I had one in his honor this being my first Father’s Day without him.