Happy Big Possum's Day

It’s been over twenty years since my father died and I still miss him.

The Big Possum

Maybe you never get over the death of a parent. Or maybe his unexpected death at sixty-six was too much for me to handle at thirty. I now realize at over fifty myself that sixty-six is a pretty young age to drop dead, which is what he did. I think.

I miss my dad at the weirdest times. At first, it was all the time. Now it’s whenever my car breaks down or someone is treating me unfairly. These were situations my father would “handle.” Once, when a mechanic was holding my car hostage, he called him and said, “There were only three truly mean men born. One’s dead and I’m still looking for the other one.” He could pull that off, being a big guy with a bigger, gruffer voice. At any rate, I got my car back that day.

Sometimes I miss him so much and so unexpectedly, it takes my breath away. My husband and I recently celebrated our twentieth anniversary and I spent the day crying for my Papa. He was already dead when we got married, so I don’t know why I missed him so much on that milestone. Maybe sometimes you just really want your dad.

I miss his humor: the fart jokes he made loudly in Walmart, the off color jokes he told all the time, the stories he completely made up that people believed. He was the person who taught me the joy of telling a good story.

I’ve had twenty-one Father’s Days without him and I wish I could go back and redo the thirty I had. Especially the last one. I didn’t know it would be the last one.

My dad was nowhere near perfect, but I know he loved me a lot, and I guess that’s what I miss the most. The person I can call who I know will one hundred percent take my side and possibly offer to whip someone’s ass on my behalf.

But I also miss the man who used to end phone conversations by saying, “Find a good branch to hang from tonight, Little Possum. Big Possum loves you!”

If your Big Possum is still alive and worthy of it, give him a call or a big hug for me.