My dad died Sunday, June 24th. Here's my journal entry from Monday: My dad died yesterday. For genealogy purposes, it was June 24, 2007. I don’t know if it’s sunk in yet. It’s hard to have your father die. I keep thinking about him and all the things he did, and the places we went together and that kind of thing. He died of a heart attack, and I think that’s what it would have had to have been to kill him as he had a big heart. He may not have gone to church, and he may have actually turned against religion, but he was good to his family and he had reasons why he turned away from God. His life was mixed up in some ways, and I think those ways formed him in the way he was—kind at times, rough at other times, smart, yet letting reason and intellect get in the way of intuition and allowance for there being a God. In many ways he was heroic, but in some ways, he was childish. Like all of us, he had his moments of greatness–and his moments of blackness. I loved him, but disagreed with him on any number of important issues.
Dad was the finest hunter and fisherman I knew. He knew more about the woods and the wildlife in them than most people who have ever lived. He knew how to make things with his hands–he was a very creative person, one who figured out how to do things and then did them. I think everyone close to him has something that he gave to them that he created. He was generous, and thought little of his money, thought of it as a means to share good times with his family and others—not as something to horde for a future time. He lived life big and he lived life hard at times, but he was my dad, and by golly, I’m going to miss him.
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