Jennifer C. Moore

Dad.

This is going to be extra difficult for me for two reasons. Improbably given my strong-willed spirit, I am also the weepy one in the family. And I also have an irrational fear of speaking in front of large groups of people.  Which if you know both know my father and me, we share a tremendous amount of similarities, so it seems unfortunate that this particular trait would be the one that I did not inherit.  

Grief this great is hard to contemplate.

Many have and will focus on his spirituality, intellect, and mentorship.

I am here to speak on the man, the human; my father.

My siblings had their own special relationships.  And maybe this describes theirs too.  We haven’t compared, and nor should we.

Dad and I were two peas in a pod. 

Boundless energy, avid readers, intellectually curious, a little fearless, a little needy for accolades, lovers of words and language, and an irresistible ability to laugh at ourselves.  

If I were conservative, we would have had probably no disagreements at all.

But he raised me to be an independent thinker, and that’s what he got.

I had time to read through many letters that he wrote me over the years recently, and a recurring theme, not one that was unbeknownst to me, but one that I was surprised was revisited so frequently, was how often he said “I see so much of myself in you.”

My brother-in-law, Sean, observed this in a casual statement he might not even remember during a family vacation.  We were at breakfast, everyone relaxing in a topical location, when someone at the table offhandedly remarked that perhaps we should just hang by the pool that particular day.  And Sean immediately retorted, pointing at the two of us “not with these two together.”  And only then did I realize that Dad and I were the only ones standing; the other 8 were still relaxing at the breakfast table. But Dad had a large map opened and was holding a highlighter and I was comparing two earmarked guidebooks that I had unearthed from the house’s library.  We were ready to go.

It was not just about activity.  It was about how much life could you cram in a day. 

I also recently found a not very flattering photo of the two of us from a hike in the Pacific Palisades.  The view is gorgeous overlooking the Pacific Ocean, but what I love about it is that captures a moment in time of just one day that I remember in exact detail.  We both look gross and sweaty in the midst of a fairly strenuous two-hour hike. After which we went swimming in the ocean, then drove to Malibu for a decadent lunch (Dad and I did like the finer things), drove up further to another beach, swam there, drove back to Venice, went into his hotel’s hot tub, then went to the Getty Museum, saw a few exhibits, had a glass of wine on the museum patio overlooking Los Angeles, and then drove to Santa Monica to have dinner.  All peppered with interesting, diverse, personal, humorous conversation, but not about religion.  Just a normal 12-hour day with Dad and Jen, being together, in our boundless element.

In one of those same cards that I read, he wrote “I see so much of myself in you….including the occasional discouraging periods.” And he would remind me how life was worth living…and how much fun, meaning, and purpose we would have doing it together, even through the difficult times. 

That was what made him special.  He saw you on your terms.  Met you on your terms.  And was there for you on your terms. 

The depth the loss of not having him to talk to, really knows no bounds.  He didn’t coddle, and we didn’t always meet eye to eye, but we had a deep and profound love and respect for one another.  

I like to think that I was a challenge to him, at times dueling with himself.

He had an obsession with morning glories.  And in this past year of his illness, I noticed that on the way to the office there was this large field of wild morning glories on the side of the highway.  It would often prompt me to call him.  He wouldn’t always be able to answer, and so we would sometimes text, in lieu.  Our love of language and books would always be at the forefront, and sometimes become a vehicle for our dialogue.  This text was particularly meaningful since I had sent a picture of the morning glories which precipitated response involving some books I had sent him.  He ended with “I wish you weren’t so far away, thank you for the lovely card.  You are my soul mate and I love you dearly.  Love, Daddo.”