Fuzzy around the edges

March twelfth marks the three year anniversary of the death of my beloved Dad-and-a-half (Stepfather to most) Michael Lynn Harris. I have been thinking of him so much lately, remembering how wonderful he was and missing him terribly. I'm also noticing that the memories are getting fuzzy. His face is still there, but it's not as clear. I have been scared that someday he might be completely fuzzy, but what is still there, clear as a bell in my head, is the sound of his laughter.

Mike did not have an easy life. Conceived during a short affair his mother had, he was always hated by his step-father. As a result of this and of the step-father's sick, twisted mind, Mike was abused, physically and sexually, for most of his childhood. Then, just as he thought he would be able to serve a two year mission for the church he loved, he was called to serve in Vietnam. There he was caught in a trap set by the Viet Cong and buried alive in a tunnel. He escaped by digging himself out with a pocket knife. These experiences and others left horrible emotional scars, yet he carried on and continued to smile and laugh and trounce his 6'4" jolly giant self through life. Oh the laugh. Big and robust, with just the slightest hint of a wheeze behind it. He'd throw his head back and let out a giant howl and then bend over and just laugh and laugh.

He was a chronic insomniac and for the first few months in our home, would scare us to death at night with his hourly security checks of the house. Once we figured out the pattern, we were no longer scared . . . in fact we felt safer than we ever had before! He had so many other darling little quirks. You couldn't help but love them.

He called my Mom his sweetie. "Where's my sweetie??" He'd shout when he arrived home from work or a basketball game. She had been single for the thirteen years since splitting from my father and hearing a man refer to her in such an affectionate was was like a ray of sunshine in our home every day.

When I was in London on study abroad, I discovered a GIANT Cadbury Dairy Milk Bar specifically made for Father's Day. It was called a Dad-and-a-Half bar. I brought it home to him and the nickname stuck. He'd say "It's better to be a Dad-and-a-half than a Half-Ass-Dad!"

The varsity football team that my brother Patrick played with practically lived at our house during his senior year. They all called him "Pops." He knew all of their names and all of their stories. He loved them all, and they loved him back even more.

He called me Phoebe because he thought I acted just like the character in Friends. He had nicknames for everyone . . . Emily was Monica because of her black hair and because she hung out with me, Mike Palmer was Buddy Holly because of the weird glasses he'd been wearing the first time they met. He couldn't ever remember Sheila's real name so he just called her Veronica. Pretty much everyone had at least one nickname.

He had to have a giant plates, bowls, cups and spoons. "It's a MAN'S cup" he would say as he picked up a vase. Clown sized spoons and mixing bowls were what he preferred for cereal. "This here is a MAN'S bowl with a MAN'S spoon." We had to purchase all new kitchenware to satisfy the beast! Plastic cups were not allowed because he liked the sound of silverware against the glass of a "real cup." And of course he always had to hit his silverware against all the cups. ALWAYS.

Three years ago, Brigham Young University was playing a basketball game, and Mike settled down to watch it on TV. He asked my Mom if she would mind going to the store and getting him some chocolate milk. Oh how he loved chocolate milk. She said she would be happy to run to the store down the street for him. This was rare because she always had him on some strict diet or another, trying to make sure he was healthy. But this night, she decided to go for him.

When she came home, he was sleeping on the couch with the game still on . . . or at least that's what she thought. She put the chocolate milk in the fridge and carried on whatever it was she had been doing before her trip to the store.

Two hours later, she tried to wake him to get him to bed, and he was gone. He had died peacefully in his sleep, watching his beloved BYU basketball team, happy, knowing cold chocolate milk was on the way in a giant vase.

Our family was so blessed to have this amazing man as part of our lives. We had a living example that a hard life doesn't have to ruin you . . . that you can carry on and be happy and successful and loving, that the abuse cycle can and does end, that life and people are, in fact, good.

Dad-and-a-half, I miss you every day and I know you are up there, still doing those security checks for us, keeping us safe. I don't think I ever told you I loved you, but I hope that you know that I do, very much. The images of you may get fuzzy around the edges, but the joy you brought my life will be with me forever. And that, as you used to say, is "more gooder anyway."