How does one write an obituary? Sure, there are forms and templates.  But how do you put into words that fit a short 2 or 3 paragraphs, the life of a man that is a superhero?  How can you possibly express the impact of a man in such a limited space?

It can’t be done.  It would take a book.  A novel.

But that is my task.  To immortalize Superman in a few short sentences.  It’s just not right.  It’s not right to trivialize a life in such a short amount of space.  And, quite frankly, it’s not fair.  It’s not fair to him.  He deserves so much more.  And it’s not fair to me, the one charged with trying to condense a life as full and important to friends and family in half a column length of newsprint.

I’ll do it, because that is what is expected.  It’s what tradition and our society expect.  It will fall short.  By any measure, it will fall short.  Reams of printed word could not possibly chronicle his life and the impact he had on those whose life’s he has touched.

Thus this blog post.  And even this will hardly scratch the surface.  But at least I have more space.

My Dad died Friday.  Yes, the politically correct and socially approved way of saying it should correct this to say he passed away.  But those who knew my Dad, it was not just a passing.  For me, and my Mother and my Brother, he didn’t just pass.  Passing is a car going by without a second look.  It’s what we do in the mall when a family in front of you is moving too slow.  Passing has the connotation of something fast moving, flying by us with no concern for what it is passing.

That’s not my Dad.  He didn’t pass.  Not without a ‘hello’, a firm handshake, a story.  He was a country boy at heart, and, boy, did he have stories.

Roy Lee Davenport, born February 27, 1938 in Chandler, Oklahoma, died December 10, 2021.  He told me his name was a mistake.  A screw up in the hospital.  It was supposed to be Leroy.  He said he was glad for that mistake because every Leroy he ever met was an asshole.

That was my dad.

He was just a good ole boy.  A fishin’ buddy.  Very unassuming, good humored and polite to everyone he met.  His philosophy was, the whole world was filled with friends he hadn’t met yet. He meant it and he lived it.  He could talk about hunting and fishing and truck parts.  Just a county redneck kind of guy.  But he was one of the most highly intellectual people you’d ever want to meet.  He graduated college with 2 majors, and 3 minors.  In four years.

I was lucky to get my Associate degree in 3.

He seemed to fit in anywhere.  He lived in a lot of places.  Oklahoma, New Mexico, Virginia, California, Colorado, Texas, Louisiana, North Carolina, and probably a few others.  And every place he lived was home.  Most of us grow up someplace, move away, but that one place is home.  His home was where his hat landed, he used to say.  But in later life, I figured that one out.  His home was where his heart was.  And his heart was with his family.  Me and my brother, but mostly, where Mom was.  She was his home, his companion, his happiness, his whole life.

I didn’t know how fortunate I was until later in life, when I experienced other families.  Friend’s families, even my wife’s family.  They weren’t the same.  I just thought everybody grew up with a Mom and Dad that were crazy in love with each other.  I’ve been married.  Twice.  I know how marriage is.  There is stress from time to time.  There is conflict and compromise.  We are human, and we are individuals, that’s just the way it is.  But, as God as my witness, I never heard my parents say a cross word to each other.  Never.  They had to have disagreements, it’s only natural.  But I never heard it.  It’s a testament to their love for each other and for the love of their children.

Ok, every once in a while my Dad would make some sarcastic remark and Mom would call him an asshole.  And he would laugh.  Not just a giggle, mind you, but the eye squinting, hyper breathing laugh.  Then she would laugh and he’d wrap his arms around her and say, “Patty poo, I love you.”

I know, over the top cute and corny.  But that’s been their marriage.  62 years of that crap.  How blessed we were to live in a household with that kind of love.

My Dad is a Marine.  One never ‘was’ a Marine.  Once in the Corps, you are a Marine forever.  10 years.  Vietnam.  He was good at what he did.  He served his country with distinction and honor, all the way through the 60’s when it wasn’t cool.  But he was proud of his service.  He instilled that in me.  Pride.  Pride in our country.  He preached it to me one afternoon when I was home from college.  With a stud pierced through my ear.  “This country may have it’s issues, but it’s the best thing on this planet, best country in the history of the world.”

The earring, in his view, was a full out assault on democracy, freedom and the American way of life.  It took 2 full beers for me to convince him that I wasn’t declaring myself a communist, it was just a hole in my ear.

After his time in the Marine Corps, we settled in Western Colorado.  That’s what I call home.  He worked in his Dad’s auto parts store, and then, when it was time for grandpa to retire, he bought the place.  He ran it well.  He was an important part of the town, Rotary Club President and sat on the hospital board.  He was a busy guy.  We very rarely did a family vacation, trucking it to Disneyland, (although we did get to go there when we were stationed in San Diego), he couldn’t very well close the store up for a week.  Our vacation was Saturday afternoons and Sundays in the desert.

Those are some of my fondest memories.  Dad was really into ancient Indian history, and we lived in the Mecca for that.  We would head out to the canyons in search of pictographs, ancient settlement, arrowheads and other signs of their existence.  He was always very patient with me, because, frankly, I didn’t really care about the Indian stuff.  I was in to find Butch Cassidy’s gun and a bag of gold left from a bank robbery.

Camping under the stars, watching meteor showers, listening to the songs of the coyotes.  He taught me how to build a campfire, dig the truck out of the mud, shoot an aspirin at 25 yards with a .22.  I learned to respect the land, and respect myself.

There are lots of stories.  The kind of stories that kids grow up with.  Family events, tragedies, victories.  Like the occasional water fight in the house, that started with a spilled glass of water.  Mom always hated that.  And the time Mom saw a mouse run across the living room floor and under the couch.  She was really pissed when Dad had us take turns trying to shoot it under the couch with the BB gun.

She was a saint for living with 3 boys.

There was certainly a serious side to my Dad.  Yes, he was a Marine, he was a southern boy, built on respect and hard work.  And he expected that of my brother and I.  Work hard.  Honor yourself and those you work for by giving it your best effort.  Respect.  Not only your elders, no first names when we were kids, always Mr. and Mrs., please and thank you and yes sir, no sir, yes ma’am, no ma’am, but to everyone you meet.  That has served me well in my life.  He expected that of us, but he also expected us to be true to ourselves.

When I told him, in high school, that I wanted to have a career as a photographer, he told me he didn’t really know how I could make a living doing that, but he said figure it out and make it work.  That’s the way he was.  If we had a dream, figure out a way to make a living at it and follow it.

When I had left the Air Force, he told me once that we had both been in the military.  We both were married and had kids.  He said that I have lived enough life that he wouldn’t give me advice anymore.  He would always be a sounding board, but I had my life, with my own experiences that he never had.  And he never did give me advice after that.  He may not have agreed with the decisions I had made, but he never said a thing about the choices I made.  And when those choices went awry, he never told me it was a mistake or that I was wrong.  Pick up and carry on.  Nothing but support.

My Dad was a great Dad, but later in life, he was my best friend.  I only hope that I did as well with my own sons.

And now he is gone.  Yes, people will say he is in a better place, he is without pain, he is eternally happy.  Well, maybe that is true, but dammit, I’m selfish.  I’m going to miss our phone calls.  I’ll miss his laugh when he’d give me crap about something.  I’ll miss getting together and having a beer and solving the world’s problems.

I love my Dad.  And now that he’s gone, I realize I didn’t say that enough.  He knew I loved him, and I knew that he loved me.  We didn’t have to say it.  But we should have said it a few times.

He is in a better place, but I’m not.  How can we move forward now that Superman is gone?