My dad liked red. He would have been happy if everything he owned was red. Since Mom wasn't fond of the idea of having a red house, he made do with red cars, and red pickup trucks. We gave him red shirts, red ties, and red pajamas for Christmas and birthdays. And in turn, he gave me dresses that were red, or partially red. Whenever I see a red house, I think, "there's a house that Dad would like."
He had a lot of good stories. He was quiet a lot of the time, but when friends or family were over - which was often - and the storytelling started, hysteria ensued. My favorite part of all of this is when he and Mom couldn't agree on how or when something happened. Or even who was there. This was pretty much a given part of any story. Then the biggest part of the whole thing would be about the dispute, and both of them would end up shaking their heads, while the rest of us were in tears, rolling on the floor. (In this case, it's not just an expression. I did roll on the floor quite frequently, and well into adulthood)
Dad loved the mountains. In addition to camping, he loved driving through the mountains. He knew Colorado like the back of his hand. Most weekends, we would take a drive. We would go on picnics with family friends, near a river whenever possible. I was fascinated with every rock I saw, and felt obliged to take them all home. He never discouraged me from doing this. Probably because he loved rocks himself. I was pretty much allowed to wander off to my hearts content, and he trusted me to find my way back. Which is kind of amazing considering the next important thing.
He loved to worry. This is a trait he shared with my mom, which is no doubt why they got along so well. He would figure the amount of time (the absolute minimum) it would take us to get somewhere. If we hadn't arrived by then, he was officially in worrying mode, convinced we'd been in an accident and were lying along the side of the road somewhere. Or, we were Missing. His first words were often, "where on earth have you been?" Well gosh, we had decided to eat lunch, since it was a six hour drive. The invention of cell phones were an absolute Godsend. The standing joke between Chuck and Suzz and I was, "better call Dad and tell him we're not in a ditch."
He was good at cards. And dominoes. And all manner of board games. It was pretty much impossible to beat him. Which made me all the more determined to play with him, and someday show him up. I'm pretty sure it never happened. Every Friday night was game night at our house, with Mom and Dad and the next door neighbors. They would hoot and holler so loudly that I would have to retreat to my room if I wanted to hear a television.
Dad was a Bronco fan. I don't think he ever missed a game on television. And when they moved to Kansas, did he stop being a fan? Oh no. If the unthinkable happened, and the game wasn't televised, he would go out in the garage and listen to it on the car radio. Thank goodness they moved back to Denver, and there were no more freezing games in the car. I never heard my dad swear, except during football games, which is perfectly understandable.
He was a devout Catholic. I don't remember him ever, ever missing a Sunday Mass. I liked this because I always got to have a really pretty dress to wear to church, and a matching hat. I remember being really small, when Mass was said in Latin. It made about as much sense to me as it did in English, and it sounded amazing. In his later years, he went to church every day, until he could no longer drive, and then my brother Chuck would take him on Sundays. After he was housebound, he would say rosaries many times a day. I will always see him nodding off over his rosary, with a blanket over his lap.
He could win any snoring contest.
He and my Mom were cool when they were young. They did really fun things, like climbing rocks with their friends. With dad in a suit, and my mom in a dress and high heels, because they always dressed for dates. They went for a ride in a small plane, the landing gear malfunctioned, and they skidded to a stop in a field of sunflowers. They were out on a date the night that Orson Wells did his "War of the Worlds" broadcast. They came out of the theater and everyone else was freaking out. They ignored it and went home. I guess the worrying part didn't start until they had kids. I've always wished that I could have been one of their friends, and hung out with them. My dad drove like a race car driver when he was old, so I'm guessing he was tons of fun as a teenager.
He had a Sweet Tooth. He has passed this trait on to me, and on to my daughter. My mom made homemade desserts all the time, and as soon as that was gone, she was making something else. But just in case, he always had a stash of Little Debbie's somewhere. And store bought cinnamon rolls, which were abominable compared to the ones my mom made. But there was never a chance of having a sugar shortage.
He was a hero. And not just mine. I remember him dashing into a swiftly running river, in his good shoes and pants, and snatching up a toddler, who was quickly getting washed away. If he was down to his last ten dollars, he would give it to someone else if they needed it. He was so amazingly generous. If anyone needed help, he was there. Up until the day he could no longer speak, he was still asking if we were all okay.
I hope with all my heart that he and my mom are together, because they were such a great couple, and loved each other so much. And I hope that they have all their friends around them, from back in the day. They were really funny, and so much fun. I miss them so much, but all good things come to an end. So this lifetime is over for him, but I feel certain that this was just the beginning. Safe journey, Daddy, I love you.
For Leo A. Quigley. 1917 ~ 2012
