Happy Birthday, Dad

A Bittersweet Sunday

It seems remarkably cruel that Tim Russert died (so suddenly, so shockingly) just two days before Father's Day. As known as he was for hosting Meet the Press, I think so many more people felt as if they knew him because of his willingness to share his memories and feelings about his family in books like Big Russ and Me and Wisdom of Our Fathers. Watching the tributes that have been composed for him all over television, not just on NBC and MSNBC, it's clear how important family was to Russert (as a son, as a father), how much his friends meant to him. But you also see a man who really, really loved his job, and loved what his life had become. And more than anything else, that's what I find myself admiring about him. How many of us get to say that?

Sunday mornings were often a source of tension between my father and me, though less so as the years progressed. I know he wished I'd go to church with him, and we never had the discussion we should've had about why I felt so conflicted about our church, and religion in general. But as Dad began to accept that it was something I just didn't want to do, we found other common ground on Sunday mornings, and that was Meet the Press. I don't think anyone was more gratified that MSNBC began replaying the show at 6 p.m., because he'd usually forget to tape the show, or we'd forget to do it for him.

Two people really got me interested in politics: Aaron Sorkin and Tim Russert. And I'm grateful for that, since it gave my father and I so much to talk about during what turned out to be the last years of his life.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today is my father's birthday. In a couple of months, it will have been two years since he passed away. He would've been 63 years old, which is a number I still have a little bit of trouble with when thinking about how much more time he should've had to enjoy.

Looking back at what I wrote a year ago, it's interesting (at least to me) to note what has and hasn't changed during that period. Time has certainly given me an opportunity to cope and reflect. The disbelief - for the most part - isn't as strong. The anger that I felt has faded.

But they're not entirely gone. I see how my mother looks at older couples who are spending that part of their lives together, and I can see how strongly she feels that loss in those moments. I'm sure she feels it more often than she'll ever let me know, no matter how much I try to help her, but she manages to hide it. Yet I can also see how far she's come, how healthily she's recovered from her grief, and that makes me feel better about things.

Sometimes, I think about how I've grown apart from my father's side of the family - especially in recent months - and wonder what he would think of that. Would he be disappointed in me? Would he think I should try harder? Would he be able to help me deal with the anger I feel? Would he understand why I've acted the way I have?

I tried to bring up the subject of doing something for Dad's birthday with my mother, but I could tell it just made her sad, so I dropped it. I'm sure she'll want to do something in his memory, but I can also understand that most any gesture - no matter how well intentioned - might feel empty.

I also talked with my sister about it last night, and of course, nothing seems big enough or special enough. But as we did last year, we'll try to do something true to his spirit. He always tried to give whenever he could. So my sister will make a donation to Dad's church. I should say to "our" church, but it hasn't felt that way in a long time - even before his death. But that place meant a lot to him, so if we can do something to help in my father's name, I think he'd be okay with that.

Once again, I'll be making a donation to WEMU, a radio station my father really loved. Maybe he loved it too much, judging from all the pledge requests we've been getting recently. But he did give them a tremendous amount of support because he enjoyed everything their staff and programming offered, so if I can continue that - even in some small way - I think that'd make him happy.

Last year, I had the idea to eat hot dogs for dinner because it was often Dad's guilty pleasure meal of choice. Even if he had the option to eat anything else, if it was left up to him (and he really had to go out), more often than not, he'd opt for a place he could score a chili dog. But having dinner with my mother at a Coney Island felt a little bit strange, so I don't know if we'll do that this year. She won't come right out and say it, but I can tell she's thinking, "You know, he liked steak, too. Why don't we have a steak?" So maybe I'll have the hot dog for lunch.

Regardless, my father will be on my mind today, and I'll do what I can to commemorate his birthday. I don't know if it'll be enough. It probably never will be. I just hope it feels right.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today is my father's birthday. He would've been 62 years old, and I keep wanting to pick up the phone to wish him a Happy Birthday. I want to take him out for a birthday lunch or dinner.

Emotionally, as you might imagine, I feel like kind of a mess right now. Obviously, there's the grief and sadness. We miss him terribly, and still can't believe he's gone. I try to be there for my mother as best I can, but I know it's not the same. Most days, I wish I could do more for her.

For me, there's also anger. I thought that would've passed by now, but it hasn't. My father should've had at least another 10 years, if not 20. He and my mother should've been able to enjoy retirement and old age together. It just doesn't feel right. Or fair. He deserved more. He deserved better.

Every year, in the months leading up to his birthday, I'd often make a mental checklist of gift ideas for him. What was a book or CD that he'd find especially interesting? I haven't been doing that much mental shopping over the past 10 months, but this weekend, I walked around a bookstore and picked out what I might have gotten for him this year. It wasn't easy, mostly because I haven't had our usual phone conversations to draw ideas and inspiration from. So I mostly thumbed through the books and music that I thought he'd like, but also reminded me of him. I'm especially glad that no one asked me if I needed any help because I wouldn't have managed much of an answer.

My sister and I talked about what we should do for Dad's birthday, our first without him. What would capture his spirit? What would he want to do? And what might help us break up the sadness a bit, and get through the day?

Making a donation in my father's name seemed like the most important thing to do. He gave a lot of his time and money to causes and institutions he believed in. If I didn't already know that, the constant deluge of mail and phone calls asking for contributions is a reminder. (And to most of those organizations, I apologize. Maybe it'll be easier to deal with your requests next time around.)

We wanted to follow his example, so today, we're making a donation to WEMU, a radio station my father loved and supported for many, many years. He loved news, he loved the arts, and he loved jazz. WEMU celebrates each of those things, and if we can play a small part in keeping that going in my father's name, it's the least we can do.

The other thing we're going to do today might sound strange, but we think it really captures Dad's spirit. I'm going to a Coney Island for dinner tonight. Because if Dad could have one thing for his birthday, he'd want a hot dog. On many occasions, when we wanted to go out for a meal, we'd ask him what he wanted. Try that new Mexican joint? Feel like pizza? Hey, how about Thai? But if we left it up to him, Dad would chuckle, shrug his shoulders, maybe look down at the floor, and sheepishly say, "You know, I wouldn't mind going for a hot dog." And he knew my mother would roll her eyes and protest.

Sure, we'd take him out for better meals on his birthday. Italian food. Mediterranean food. Seafood. Or a thick, juicy London Broil, covered in mushrooms. But he always seemed happier just eating a hot dog. And if it were entirely up to him, that's probably what he'd have. So that's what I'm having today. Chili, mustard, onions - all of it. Lay it on me. I don't know what my sister will do, as the Coney Island hasn't exactly made its way down south. Surely, she can find a hot dog stand somewhere in Charleston. I'll try to help her out with Google.

I don't know if this is enough. Later, we'll probably think of other things we could've done, other donations we could've made. But it feels right today.

Happy Birthday, Dad. We miss you and we love you.

Wander'd mony a weary fit

I'll try to end what's been a bipolar week for me on a positive note. (It might take me a few paragraphs to get there, but trust me - that's where I'm going.) And I look toward the Casselberry women for inspiration on this last day of 2005.

Last year, my sister was carjacked in Charleston, SC. Approximately two weeks ago, the asshole who did it was sentenced to 37 years in prison. He wasn't charged for the carjacking, however, because he pleaded guilty to first-degree sexual assault. After stealing my sister's car, this scumbag went on to rob someone else, and then raped a 71-year-old woman in her home - all in less than 24 hours.

Though she tries not to, my sister often thinks about what would've happened if she hadn't fought her way out of that car and run like hell to a nearby bookstore. Fortunately, a great career and a full life both help her get past such thoughts. But when a victims' right advocate called about the sentencing, all of the old feelings, those fears, came back.

She told my sister that seeing an attacker go to prison helps many victims with closure. When my sister asked me what I thought, I said maybe it wasn't a good idea. Why re-open all those old wounds? Plus, she never got a good look at the guy during the carjacking. If she were to see him in that courtroom, wouldn't he become all too real in her memory? Ultimately, my sister decided that she would go. Not just for closure, but to support the woman that was raped. She faced her fears, and I'm in awe of her bravery.

Early last week, the secretary of my father's cardiologist called my mother. The doctor developed a close relationship with my dad throughout his heart surgeries and rehabilitation, and seemed to take my father's death rather hard. While expressing his condolences to my mother, he said he would talk to the doctors involved with my dad's case and see if he could get some answers for her. At the time, that was something my mother badly needed to hear.

Weeks and months passed, however, with no word from the doctor. Once in a while, my mother wondered if he was ever going to call, but eventually seemed to forget about it. Privately, I thought that was a good thing. After my father died, she agonized over what happened in the hospital that day, wanting the entire sequence of events replayed for her. She tortured herself over and over, wondering what she could've done differently. What could the doctor really say, what information could he have, that would make my mother feel better?

I answered the phone when the secretary called. She told me the doctor wanted to meet with my mother. After taking the message, I honestly considered not telling my mother about it. As with my sister, I questioned whether she would want those wounds re-opened - especially when they haven't closed. She's having a rough enough time each day as it is. Why would you want to relive that day? Again, what could the doctor say that would make any difference whatsoever?

But I gave my mother the message. She actually expected the call, as she'd recently spoken with a nurse who worked with the doctor, and whose mother was in rehabilitation with my father. I said I'd take her to see the doctor, if she wanted to go. Maybe I tried to talk my mother out of going because I didn't want to be in that office, reliving the events of that day, hearing what I already knew had happened.

She didn't want to go. She called the secretary, thanked her and the doctor for their time, and asked if a letter could be written, in lieu of a face-to-face meeting. I wanted to make sure I hadn't influenced my mother, so I asked if she was sure about her decision. She told me she'd accepted what had happened. Life was difficult enough without having to go through that pain all over again. I'm still worried that I swayed her with my thoughts on the matter. And I know she still tortures herself with what happened. But I think she's made great steps in her recovery. Declining the doctor's offer for a meeting shows how strong she's become. And I'm proud as hell of her for that.

This past year has been the most difficult of my life. I finished a rough, yet fulfilling two years in Iowa, earning the degree I'd worked so hard to pursue. Yet shortly after coming home, my father passed away. And I'm still trying to figure out where my life is going. Ambitions were shelved, plans have changed. Some of my friendships and relationships have become stronger, while others have deteriorated, maybe irrevocably. I know I have work to do in those areas. I've been something of an anti-social hermit. But I know this is where I'm supposed to be, where I need to be. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I believe that the bad has to be followed by the good to maintain the natural balance of our lives. So 2006 has to be a better year, right? I think it will be. I look at my mother and sister and know I'm capable of getting through this, of doing more. And I had a conversation with someone yesterday which could lead to something that would start the new year off nicely. (More on that later. Someday. Maybe. We'll see.) So I'm hopeful. And I think that's the feeling we all want on New Year's Eve.

To those who have helped me get through this year, whether I know you personally or through this blog, I'm eternally grateful for the kindness you've shown. And I thank you for taking the time to come here each day and read my writing. You allow me to have an outlet that I've sorely needed. I appreciate that more than you know.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I need a drink. Happy New Year, everyone.

Rest in peace, Mr. Jennings

My father's favorite news anchor was ABC's Peter Jennings. The man's evening just wasn't complete until he heard the news of the day from Peter. (Dad was apparently on a first-name basis with Mr. Jennings.) When I moved back home, Dad's routine became my routine. We sat next to each other many nights, watching World News Tonight and discussing what was going on in the world. And when I took a break from college, my mother held Jennings up as an example. ("You know, Peter Jennings never graduated from college.")

Back in April, when Jennings announced he had lung cancer and had to step away from the anchor desk, I knew it bothered my father. He told me as much over the phone. He had become quite sensitive to issues of health and mortality. Knowing I surfed the internet religiously, Dad often asked me if I'd read anything about Jennings' condition. And I gave him any update I could find, no matter how slight. ("Howard Kurtz says he still goes into the office, Dad." "Oh yeah? Huh. I wonder when he'll be back?") Even when Dad found himself in the hospital six weeks later, he was still tuning in and still wondering where his nightly news buddy was. The last time I saw my dad smile, he was watching World News Tonight as I walked into his hospital room. I took it as a good sign. The man was getting back into his routine.

Dad would've been sad to find out about Peter Jennings' passing yesterday. I'm sad about it, too. Mr. Jennings, wherever you guys are, I hope you'll have a chance to chat with my dad. He's a big fan, and I know he's got a lot of stuff he wants to ask you.

Happy Father's Day, Dad

For those of you who know me or have been reading this blog for a while, you undoubtedly know that today is a bittersweet day for me. I've tried not to let it get to me, but of course it does. I've spent a lot of time thinking about my father today, and celebrating his memory with my mother as best as I can. (In that spirit, I encourage you to read Hoyt's touching tribute to his late father at Donutbuzz.)

A month or so ago, I intended to write a blog about keeping score in baseball after the Detroit News ran a feature on it. (Sorry, can't find the link.) I ended up shelving the idea, probably in favor of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes jokes. However, Billfer over at The Detroit Tiger Weblog wrote the blog that I never had a chance to write before my father passed away, and I'd like to link to it.

Some of my favorite memories of my Dad are going to Tigers games with him. He taught me how to keep score. He instilled my belief that only mustard, not ketchup should go on a ballpark hot dog. He assured me that the crowd wasn't booing Lou Whitaker, they were chanting "Loooooooou!" (I think he did the same thing with Ruppert Jones. "Ruuuuuup!") He bought me my first Tigers cap at Tiger Stadium. And he got me John Wockenfuss's autograph when I was too shy to bring my baseball up to him on Autograph Day.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I miss you. We never got to have that last catch at the Field of Dreams in Iowa, like we'd talked about. But we'll have it someday.

Bluegrass baby

To paraphrase Elwood Blues, it's 873 miles to Charleston, we've got a full tank of gas, a cooler full of pop, water and snacks, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.

So much for an extended stay at home. Two days after returning from Iowa, I've hit the road again. Hello from Lexington, KY, folks. I'm writing this from the beautiful Embassy Suites, located about four miles from the University of Kentucky. (Tonight, Sis, I applaud your hotel snobbiness. This is way better than my usual accommodations at Motel 6.) I doubt we'll have time for me to check out the campus or pick up some UK swag. Maybe on the return trip.

Why the impromptu road trip? My sister has to return to Charleston, SC, after spending the last two weeks in Michigan helping with funeral preparations and all of the paperwork we suddenly have to deal with. (I've always made fun of my sister's anal retentive need for organization and detail. Sis, I take all those taunts and teases back. You've been amazing.) And my mother decided Sis shouldn't have to return to an empty condo after losing her father. So with Mom taking a family leave from work, and me currently looking for employment, we definitely had the time to help ease my sister's transition back into her normal life.

Okay, I'm going to wander around the lobby and courtyard of this place with my mouth wide open admiringly, looking like the I-usually-stay-in-motels hayseed I am. And I should probably schedule my foot massage and facial. No continental breakfasts for this mofo tomorrow morning, my friends.

Next stop, South Carolina.

Dennis Casselberry 1944-2005

I never thought I'd be writing about this. Certainly not here. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to. Or if I could. I guess I'm still not sure. But many friends have been checking in to ask how my father was doing, worrying about what was going on. I am grateful to each of you for that. And so is my father. I wish I had better news to share with you. Many of you already know what's happened.

My father passed away last Friday.

What caused it? I don't know. The pulmonary embolism? A stroke? The doctors can't really say, and my mother wouldn't give them the satisfaction of an autopsy to possibly find some answers. Given how my mother, sister, and uncle have been torturing themselves, wondering what could've been done differently with my dad's treatment, maybe we could use some answers. But I don't know if they really exist.

I think all of his various health difficulties over the past 10-12 years - the heart surgeries, the stroke, the irregular heartbeats, the internal bleeding, the poking, the prodding, the pain - it all finally caught up with him. He never once complained. He never once asked "Why me?" He suffered through it all and continued to live his life. But his heart gave out. His heart stopped.

Calling my sister in South Carolina to tell her our father was gone is probably the worst phone call I'll ever have to make. Her crying, her weeping, her screaming - I hope I never have to hear my little sister suffer like that again. Along with my mother's weeping, they were all the worst sounds I have ever heard. I feel like I have to be "the strong one" for my mom and sister. And I'm trying. I'm doing my best. When I have a moment to myself, I finally let go too.

As I write this, my father's memorial service is almost nine hours away. It'll be held at our church in Ypsilanti, a place that meant so much to him, yet I stopped going there years ago. Before typing this, I finished writing what I'll say during the service. As soon as the Pastor asked if anyone would be saying anything, I told him I would. I have to speak. For me, for my family, and for my dad. If I didn't, I'd regret it for the rest of my life.

I also wrote my dad's obituary, something I hoped I wouldn't be writing for another 20 years. I don't know if you want to read it, and maybe it's gratuitous (and morbid) to post a link, but you can view it here. 300 words doesn't sum him up nearly enough, but I tried.

Over the past six days, I've spent a lot of time trying to think of a favorite memory of my dad. And I couldn't do it. But this is what I kept coming back to: As I said, he's been through a lot over the past 10-12 years. I know his life became more difficult as his health and energy faded on him. But when I look back on these most recent years, I feel good. Because he and I became closer. I got to know my dad, and he got to know me. We talked and we shared. And we found a lot of common interests - current events, politics, sports, film, literature, and music. My dad became so much more than my father. He became my friend. And I will always cherish that.

My dad knows how much this blog has meant to me. He was supportive of it all along, telling his friends and family to go read his son's "web log thing." ("Fried what? What do you mean by that?") And that's what I think about when I wonder whether I can go back to writing about all those things that right now seem so trivial. It might be a while before writing about severed fingers in food, my beloved Detroit sports teams, the media, or whatever else I noticed from the TV and newspapers strikes me as important enough to write about.

But I'll get there. Because it's important to me. And my dad would've wanted to talk about it. And also because I'm grateful to all of you who have cared and been interested enough to read this. Again, thank you for checking in to see if everything was okay. I promise I'll get back to you soon. I've never even seen or met some of you, yet you were concerned. That means a lot to me. And it means a lot to my dad.

Dad, I miss you. And I love you.