RIP, (Grandpa)

Case,

Today is bittersweet. It's my first Father's Day as a father. I am so happy and proud that I am your dad and you are my son. But I'm also sad. It's my first Father's Day without my dad, your Grandpa Pallister. I may be starting to sound redundant, but it cannot be said enough: Grandpa was a great man. He died exactly a week ago, and today, more than ever before, when I look at you I am reminded how much you mean to me and how much I miss my dad (I used to wonder how you could "smile-cry." Now I know.) Grandpa was laid to rest four days ago. You were there, eating cheese puffs and being "Magooish" as always. You won't remember the day, but I will never forget to remind you about the unique life of William Mark Pallister Sr. With Grandpa in mind, I will spend the rest of my days doing my best to raise you with the values he instilled in me, just as I did my best to eulogize him:


Bear with me here. On the long and distinguished list of things I obsessively worry about (slash) fear, public speaking is right near the top. But among the many lessons to be learned from the life of William Mark Pallister Sr., none is more fundamentally important than this: Life is about sucking it up and getting it done. Dad was a man of many things, but never excuses. So in his honor, here I go.

I'm sure I'm not alone in that my days have been filled with thoughts of Dad for a couple of months now. On my drives to and from work (OK, that one doesn't apply to Bill). Lying in bed late at night unable to fall sleep (OK, that one doesn't apply to Kenny). Lying in bed late in the morning waiting to get up (OK, that one doesn't apply to Mark). Watching a random baseball game (OK, that one doesn't apply to Jack). Or just generally relaxing on a day off (OK, that one doesn't apply to Patti).

Anyway, the point is, for those closest to him, we were fully cognizant of the man's presence and fully aware of the power of his influence on everyday life as his was nearing its end. The thing is, that cognizance, that awareness wasn't THAT different. Again, I don't think I'm alone in saying that I've spent decades (not nearly as many as my much older siblings, but decades nonetheless) being constantly reminded as I make my way through life just how much Dad has shaped the person I've become. I'm not just proud to be my father's son, I'm thankful. Every day.

Speaking for myself now, despite plenty of mistakes and all the holes I've dug, I somehow managed to keep moving forward. I've had two people in the last five years ask me how I've been able to get so many different newspaper jobs without having a degree (I have it now a mere 22 years after I started my course work. Dad may have raised a procrastinator, but not a quitter.) Well, I'll tell you why I got all those jobs. Because a man who took on life at every turn and never backed down long ago taught me the value of hard work and sacrifice (we'll credit Ma with my occasionally cited intelligence). Those values have time and again overcome my impetuousness, stubbornness and plain old stupidity.

One more time I will attempt to speak for others, although I think the following statement will be met with general agreement: We are a family of survivors for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is that no matter how many detours we decide to take, we always return to following the path of a great man.

How great? Well, as I was trying to come up with the perfect anecdote to put Dad's life into context (and there is no shortage), I realized he was the same age when I was born as I am now. As a 40-year-old, I can, if I so choose in those rare moments when I'm not wondering about utility bills and cheeseburgers (sound familiar?) boast of becoming a husband and father in the last 17 months. But Dad in January 1972? He was 22 years into being a husband and 21 years into being a father. Think about that. They really DON'T make 'em like that anymore. That's an amazing legacy for any man, and I haven't even mentioned that by that time, he was more than 15 years into a storied Chicago Fire Department career. He already had been promoted to lieutenant (he would later be promoted to captain) and had been part of the department's first bomb squad. The man volunteered to work with bombs, for God's sake. I don't want to brag (OK, maybe just a little), but it's no hyperbole to say my dad was a living legend before I was even alive.

Legend is often synonymous with hero, and that's certainly the case with Dad. Most people assume I'm talking about his exploits as a fireman. After all, this was a man who spent close to 30 years willingly walking through the doors of burning buildings. No question those were heroic actions. But what really made Dad a hero was walking through the front door. Day after day. Year after year. Decade after decade. On the fire department, you're not much good if you can't be counted on to be there when you're needed by those around you. Same goes for fatherhood. Dad was a great fireman; he was a better father.

As the youngest in the family, I had a much different relationship with Dad. He was forced to retire when I was 11. It wasn't easy for a man like him to adjust to a life devoid of challenge, and I didn't help at all. In fact, when I think about how much of an asshole I was back then and how my attitude made a difficult transition that much harder, I want to kick my own ass. (I have to stop for a minute and remember that Dad hated it when I swore or tried to talk tough when I was a teenager. I thought it made me sound cool. But Dad always reminded me how foolish I was. I can hear him right now, saying, "Swearing is the verbal crutch of a mental cripple.") Sorry, Dad.

Long before I realized just how great Dad was, we bonded over baseball. He never did teach me to hit, but he taught me many other things. Particularly useful was his mantra, "Stay in front of the ball." I did, even if it meant a bloody lip, a chipped tooth or a nasty bump on my head. I didn't know it then, but Dad wasn't teaching me how to catch a ground ball; he was teaching me not to back down, teaching me the secret to life.

Dad's legacy is not in any of the words I've written for this eulogy. His legacy is right there in the front row. A family of individuals who, like their father, work hard, sacrifice and take on life and its responsibilities without backing down. And as much as I miss Dad and wish I had another 40 years with him, the hardest part of him no longer being here is that he and my 10-month-old son, Case, will not get to share their lives together. It breaks my heart. But if you'll allow me to address the man of honor, I just want to say, "Dad, I promise to teach Case the invaluable lessons you taught us so that he can grow up to proudly carry on your name and your legacy. I promise he will learn all about the greatest man we will ever know."

 Love,
Dad