A Few Good Men...

I admit it -- I love men (in spite of who they are). While I am sure that there are plenty of blogs out there written by women who have a less than favorable outlook on the male species...this one (well, this particular entry at least), is not one of them. I believe there are good men...well, a few of them at least.

I just celebrated a birthday...and like all "special days" it conjured up thoughts of where I was last year, 10 years ago, 25 years ago...where I will be next year...which triggered thoughts on "other special days" that happened last year, 10 years ago, etc., in my head... I was exhausted after all that mental math. But of all those days, one in particular sticks in my head -- January 27, 2008. Not my birthday...and thankfully, not anyone else's birthday that I know. It was the day my father passed away and went to that big casino (the one with wall-to-wall "hot" craps tables) in the sky. Now, HE was a good man. A man of unfaultering integrity and honesty, with deep love of his family and friends, a passion for the stock market, and a (loud) bark worse than his bite. Granted, he had his less-than-wonderful moments...but at the end of the day, he was really good.

Every day brings a thought of "Big Al." I keep this fantastic black and white photo of him facing me in my office. He is in his professional hey-day, flanked by two other executives in his firm, scotch-rocks in their hands and smiles that say "this is one helluva life" on their faces. Another time but timeless. I want to be in that photo. And if you ask my mother, she'd probably say I am. Out of the three of his children (btw, my brothers are good men, too), I am most like him. Headstrong, smart, the orator, big mouth, last-word-stealer, caring (and worrying) for those I love, and a frustrated attorney. And a year ago, the one who left her job for a month to be with him while he lay in the hopital on a ventilator. There could be no crueler form of torture for him -- unable to speak. His hands paralyzed by MS so he was unable to write. Can you imagine? Unable to communicate. That alone would kill me. But for him, he had his ways of getting his point across. A wink of an eye (meant "hiya baby"), furrowed brow (meant "caress my cheek, that relaxes me"), tilted head up twice (meant "scratch my head -- it helps me fall asleep")...and the intermittent tear down his cheek (no translation needed).

Ironic that I -- after all those years of fighting to get the last word in -- wanted nothing more than for him to shut me up. Of course, I couldn't shut up... I kept talking -- right through to his eulogy which I delivered with complete composure while my insides were tormented and bleeding. He would have wanted that "big presentation" -- the words, the imagery, the lengthy recounting of favorite "Dad" stories...he would have wanted to see his little girl with the big mouth make him proud and not lose her shit. I could hear him say "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree"...and I will always hang onto those words.

So, as I reflect on what this date and time of year represent to me, I cry, I get that sick pain in my stomach and an ache in my chest that love lost (any love) brings, and yet, I find happiness. He is a part of me...and I know that he is watching me like a hawk. And frankly, with him up in heaven, anything is possible (the man could negotiate any deal). He wants me to smile, to live a good, honest and passionate life, laugh loudly and speak my mind...and yes, he definitely wants me to find my own "good man."

So Daddy, this blog's for you. I've got my money on the pass line because there is no chance that I am crapping out with your hands on the dice. And while you're at it, give me a $100 "yo" because I'm feeling lucky.

Love a good man...it's heavenly.

-Andy