Meet my dad, Gerald Paul Rodeen, or "Rodie" as so many lovingly called him. He was a genuine bada#s. A real cool motha f#cker. An avid hunter. A self built businessman. A small town lawyer with a reputation as a pit bull in the courtroom. He lit up a room with his boisterous laugh. He told the best dirty jokes. He busted his a#s to build a better life for his family. He sat on many community boards. He never took no for an answer. He coached little league, even if that meant telling a bunch of 12 year girls to "play like they had something between their legs." He worked long hours but always made it to every single sporting event my brother and I had. He may have showed up straight from court in a full suit with a pheasant feather in his hat, but he was there, yelling in the stands for me to "box out" and "get my a#s on that girl" He'd always pick up the phone in the middle of the night. Whether it was come to pick you up from the bar or bail your friend out of jail, you could always count on Rodie to be there. He was a proud father and grandfather. He gave the best advice no matter the situation. When he'd pull you in real close and quietly say, "listen here mother f#cker" you knew he meant business.
When he spoke, people listened. There are far too many "Rodie" stories to retell in one blog post, but if you're lucky, you'll catch one of his old high school buddies after a few beers and they'll tell you about the time he was arrested in the middle of pitching a high school baseball game or how he rode his motorcycle in the rain all the way back to Indiana University to beg his way back into college after he flunked out. He lived life balls to the wall, with no regrets. That Rodie, he was one of a kind. He was fearless. He was my father.
Five year ago today, he left this heavenly life. There hasn't been day since then that I haven't thought about him and missed him dearly.
Losing a parent is hard. Losing a parent in your 20's is heart wrenching. Losing a parent unexpectedly is torture. I never got to say goodbye. I can't remember the last conversation I had with him. Not because we didn't talk, probably because I was too busy multitasking to be focused on the moment. I most definitely took for granted that I could just pick up the phone and call him, ask for his advice, or tell him about how much a#s I just kicked at my work presentation. I'm sure the last words I said to him were "I love you" because I always ended my conversations like that. But what we discussed last totally flees me. Five years later, I still can't retrieve that memory.
A lot has changed in 5 years...
Three more grand-babies, two of them mine. Two of them with his namesake and the wild hair in their a#s to prove it. I used to keep this picture up on my fridge. It's my dad with Johnny on the day he was born, the first and only grandchild my father ever got a chance to meet. This was quite possibly the proudest I've ever seen my father. I had to take that picture down because it was just to painful to think that I will never have a picture like that with my kids. My sons will never know the firecracker that was their grandfather. But every day when I look at them, I see pieces of him. Kam has one of his dimples and Max has his fine hair. Both have his fearless personality and are ornery as hell. As I'm hollering at Kam to quit jumping from the top of the stairs or pulling my giggling toddler down from the top of our ottoman, I can't help but laugh. Yup, that's Rodie's rowdiness.
More than just grandbabies has changed in the last 5 years. Ken and I bought a house, our first home. My mom had a knee replacement. My brother went through a heart wrenching divorce. We lost our Grandfather, my dad's dad. I had major career milestones: promotions, TV appearances, I launched a blog. Ken went to work for my dad's best friend. Over the past 5 years, every event both big and small, I wished I could pick up the phone and call him. Ask for his advice. Share my good news.
I could look at all these milestones and be sad he's not there. I am sad. I miss him and if I think about it too long I could cry. I do cry. But then I think about how my father lived his life, with no regrets. And I should do more of that; live in the moment. I should be thankful for what I do have. I have an insanely supportive family. A family that is tighter than ever before. A family that would make him proud. A family that has lived through darkness and risen above. My husband, my brother, my mom, aunts, uncles, cousins, we have grown closer than ever before. Sure we still fight, but don't you dare test that bond. You'll lose, every time. My brother once referred to my grandfather as the tent pole in the Rodeen family circus. I've watched my brother gracefully step up into that position. He's a caring son, a loving father, and the best big brother around. How proud my father must be.
I have memories. I have crazy stories about the legend that was Gerry Rodeen that will make you laugh until you will cry. Five years later and I'm still hearing stories about my father that I've never heard before. Each time I hear a new Rodie story I can't help but smile. I can only hope that I live my life with no regrets as he did. That man literally gave zero f#cks about what everyone else thought. He just lived in the moment.
I have so many of his traits: his work ethic, his mouth, and his drive. His love for sports and competition and, I am certain, Ken would tell you I inherited my dad's stubbornness.
I also always have him with me. Physically, I have his watch. I wear it every day. When I'm being challenged at work I look down at it and think "what would Rodie do?" And then I think, he would get up and kick some a#s. So I do, I get up and kick a#s every damn day. When I'm with my kids and Kam is jumping off the couch and Max is screaming at me for more fruit snacks, I look down at my watch to find out how many more hours until bed time and I think of my dad. Thanks Dad for the wild genes.
Then I have wonderful moments when I can truly feel his presence. On Christmas Eve this year, Ken and I were having a quiet evening with the kids making cookies. Ken had picked up a bottle of my dad's favorite wine, Pouilly-Fuissé, and we were enjoying a glass while Kam and Max frosted cookies. I had been begging Kam all week to say "Merry Christmas" to anyone we met. In true Rodeen form, he had refused every single time. As I was sitting quietly enjoying my wine, thinking about my father and watching Max down an entire bottle of sprinkles, Kam looked up at me, and with a twinkle in his eye, he said "Merry Christmas, Mommy!" Right there, in that moment I knew he was with me. With tears in my eyes and Pouilly-Fuisse in my hand I raised a glass in Rodie's honor.
Whether you knew him or not, I hope you raise a glass in his honor tonight. I know I will be.
