Up the Wallis

My mom carefully reworded a few things in my father's obituary and I asked her if she wanted to hear what I planned to say at the funeral just in case she had any changes to that as well. She said, "just don't say Up the Wallis" and I thought...we might be in trouble because that is my whole bit. I wrote and posted most of it years ago, but it seemed fitting. A few people asked for me to share a copy and so here it is: 

Over the last few months, my family knew our father’s health was declining. We just weren’t expecting it to happen so quickly. One thing my father drilled into me over the years is this: If you aren’t at least 10 minutes early, you’re late.
Well, I can only assume my dad didn’t want to be late to heaven.

In addition to punctuality, my father taught me and my siblings plenty more:
How to tie a tie.
How to tie a cleat hitch.
How to eat raw oysters and peel a crawdad.
That black dress socks pulled up to the knee with white slip-on Keds is not a good look for anyone.
That bellies and bald heads sunburn first.
That change adds up.
That nothing is free.
That life is anything but fair.
That getting a B wasn’t good enough.
How to order a beer in at least a half-dozen languages.
The way to Eldorado. (“Gaily bedight, a gallant knight, in sunshine and in shadow...”)
How to pour a drink.
How to throw a cow patty.
How to drive a boat—just not how to dock one.
To tip well.
To never run out of gas.
To play a mean game of ping pong.
That strawberries stain.
That you get what you pay for.
That you should let your meat rest.
That there’s always room for dessert.
How to two-step and jitterbug—(well, technically I learned that in cotillion class, but my parents did a much better job in the living room).
Several choice words (many of which I can’t say in church).
That people can always tell when you do something halfway.
That you can never have too much insurance, to save for retirement and to keep emergency cash in your wallet—just in case you need to call a cab, a wrecker.

He also taught me: The difference between port and starboard.
The difference between port and merlot.
The names of at least a dozen different cheeses.
To put your toes in the ocean as often as you can.
To sing loudly, even if you’re off-key.
How to properly pull a weed (get the roots), read a map, shoot a gun, bait my own hook and tell a joke.
To appreciate new kinds of food, new people, and new places.
That a 16-year-old doesn’t need a new car or name-brand jeans. (And now that I have my own 16-year-old, I agree.)
To take the trip. To spring for Global Entry—but don’t antagonize the TSA agent.
That quality is always better than quantity.
To make friends with important people: the guy at the gas station, someone at the bank, and anyone who can cook.

He tried, unsuccessfully, to teach me a few other things:
How to balance a checkbook.
How to drive the speed limit.
How to pick up the living room.
But I assure you—it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Over the years, my dad had a myriad of passing hobbies and interests: sailing, gardening, country and western dancing, photography the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, Patsy Cline, tobacco, and Robert E. Lee.

But for as long as I can remember, there have been two constants:
Food. And family.

And to me, they go together. When I went home, the question was never what do you want to do? — it’s what do you want to eat?
And we always ate well.
We had seconds. Occasionally thirds. The glasses kept getting refilled.

Often, before a big family meal, he would pray first. It was usually a long, rambling mini-sermon.
But sometimes, he stuck to his traditional toast—a nod to his Scottish heritage. I’m not even sure what it means, exactly, except that it was always fitting.

And even though it’s no longer my name, I know it’s for me too.
Today, it’s for all of us who have loved him—or been loved by him:

“Up the Wallis.