King of the Wild Frontier

29 06 2010

Today marks the 7 year anniversary of my dad’s death.  I’ve been debating about posting something,  because, well this is a blog (an inherently impersonal medium) and this day is alway very personal for me, so I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share it will all my billions of readers.  But I obviously have decided to share it, so here is it.

It seems impossible that it has been 7 years, and for contrasting reasons.  On the one hand, time has gone by somewhat quickly.   I can’t believe I’m old enough to have attended my 5 year college reunion, it seems like I just graduated.  On the other hand, there is so much that has happened in the last 7 years that he hasn’t been here for, I have become an adult (well at least something that is much closer to an adult that I was at 20), graduated from college, traveled all over,  started a master’s program, and bought a house.  All of that makes the 7 years seem like such a long time.

Usually, I spend a portion of June 29th reflecting about what was so awesome about my dad, and things he taught me.  I’d like to share some of them with you all.

  • He loved Harry Potter, which is exciting to me since I introduced him to the series.  I think that was good payment for him reading to me as a kid. (He did the character voices- tweety bird and sylvester were my favs)
  • He could always start a campfire, but would always let me try first.  He was patient and eventually, under his tutelage, I was able to get almost as good.
  • He believed I could do anything.  Whenever I doubted myself he would say, “you can do it, daddies know.”  And he was right, I was always able to do it.  He taught me how important it is to believe in yourself, and how vital it can be to share how much you believe in someone else.
  • He was all about dreams and goals.  He loved fishing, and one of his dreams was to fly fish at Christmas Island.  When he got sick, he worked his butt off to get better.  He wanted to go to Christmas Island and after we finally found out his diagnosis and he spent a year doing chemo and stem cell transplants he worked very hard in cardio rehab and then pushed himself even more to get back to a place where he could enjoy life again.  He was able to go to Christmas Island and set and reach a whole new set of dreams and goals.  He taught me how to dream big, and work hard to make them come true.

He was a fantastic dad and I miss him tons.  If you wanted to do something for me today, you could tell you parents and/or child(ren) that you love them, K?

Dad achieving one of his dreams- Marlin on a fly rod (I think, it might be a sailfish).


Dad helping me release the greyling

Dad’s retirement party
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5 responses

29 06 2010
Kate

Big tears for you and Dad, darlin’. I will be sure to tell O I love her today, and I’m telling Sam that he needs to tell her what your dad told you: “You can do it, daddies know.”

It’s so evident how much effect your dad’s words and actions have had on you. I’ve rarely known someone as confident, determined, down to earth, and life-loving as you. You exude confidence, self-comfort, and joy all the time. You’re a total inspiration, and I often think of you when I feel my own confidence waning. So thanks, Dad, for making our Jenny so totally awesome!! I’ll be thinking of both of you today!

29 06 2010
daughterofthemidnightsun

Awww, thanks Kate!!!! I often look up to you for guidence and inspiration so I’m glad I can return the favor. I have no doubt that O knows you love her, you are such a great mom.

30 06 2010
Anna

I can’t believe that it’s been seven years, Jenny. This is a beautiful post and I’m sure that your dad would be so so proud of you. Hugs!

7 07 2010
Linda Gavin

Jenny, this is quite a tribute to your father. I think any parent can only hope to be remembered with so much love.

29 06 2012
King of the Wild Frontier « Daughter of the Midnight Sun: Tales of an Alaskan Adventurer

[…] marks the 9th year since my dad died.  It’s always a weird day for me, the first few years were really hard, I couldn’t get past the overwhelming sadness of the […]

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