My Dad was Atticus Finch crossed with Rodney Dangerfield

"If you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks.  You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it." -- Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird 

"I found there was only one way to look thin:  hang out with fat people." -- Rodney Dangerfield

How do I describe my Dad to someone who never met him?  How can I condense his larger-than-life character into a few words?  I guess I'll start by saying my Dad was a cross between Atticus Finch and Rodney Dangerfield. 

In his younger days, my Dad could have passed for a movie star.  He had the raven locks of Atticus (as played by Gregory Peck).  Later in life, he developed the same round belly as Rodney.  But it's not really his appearance that draws the comparisons.  It's the character similarities.

My Dad had Atticus' decency, intelligence and deep commitment to family.  He could relate to anyone because he attempted to walk around in their skin.  He was inquisitive and eager to learn what made people tick.  There are people who ask a question, but don't bother to pay attention to the answer.  They are too busy thinking about what they want to say next.  My Dad wasn't that type.  He truly listened.  A rare skill, especially in these days.  He not only heard what you were saying, but he could sense what you weren't saying.  He could tell if you were hiding something.  He would ferret out the truth, but never in a pushy or patronizing way.  He just kept asking questions until you couldn't hide any longer, even from yourself.  He sought the truth because he knew that it's better to live in the light.  My Dad generously shared his own light.  Hard-earned life lessons flowed from him.  Every hardship in life became a teaching moment.  It was like my Dad knew his time on Earth would be short, so he never missed an opportunity to pass on his wisdom. 

When I see Scout sitting next to Atticus on the front-porch swing, I immediately think of the nook under my Dad's arm that I cuddled into for our talks or movie-watching marathons.  My Dad loved his family unabashedly.  He never missed an opportunity to say "I love you" or to engulf us in his legendary bear hugs.  He knew that the most important lesson children need to learn is that they are loved unconditionally.  No matter what mistake I made or how many times I crashed the car (many), I knew my Dad would never stop loving me.  He would work two jobs, drive any distance, and even risk his life for 'his girls.'  I knew we were the most important thing in his life because he said so.    

My Dad also loved pull-my-finger jokes.  Enter Rodney Dangerfield.  When I was little, I used to hold onto my Dad's pointer finger because his hand was too big to hold.  As I grew older, he would still offer his finger to me, but it was to let out a sonic boom.  Then, he'd start running, dragging me along, and yelling, "I'm jet propelled."  As a teenager, I was mortified by his tooting.  As an adult, I have fond memories of my Dad's hot wind hijinks. 

If the typical pull-my-finger joke didn't appeal to your high-brow tastes, my Dad had another comedic gem up his sleeve -- the missing finger jokes.  My Dad lost his right pinky finger in an accident.  He relished asking for a high four and frightening all my friends.  Or, he would put the stump of his missing finger up his nose giving the illusion he was three knuckles deep.  It was the ultimate gross out.  He was also famous for his nine-finger back rubs.

Dad would enhance the missing finger jokes with his creative tales about how it was lost.  I didn't know the real story for years.  Many of his lost finger fairytales taught a life lesson.  For instance, my dad would say, "I lost my finger when I was picking my nose and fell.  Better not pick your nose."  Or, "I was always grabbing food while my mother was cooking.  She'd reach over and slap my hand and tell me not to spoil my dinner.  One night she was chopping meat and forgot she had the cleaver in her hand.  When she reached over to slap my hand for stealing a bite, she accidentally chopped off my finger.  We had finger stew that night." 

My Dad would do anything for a laugh.  He lit up every room he entered with his big booming voice and easy smile.  He must have known that life is too short not to enjoy it.

I will always cherish my Dad's silly side (aka Rodney), and treasure his deep and compassionate side (Atticus).  It's not often you find a man who is equal parts comedic genius and wise sage.  I am so lucky that Marty Brown was my Dad.

Good Grief, Amanda Brown

We're taught the five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Stages imply a tidy, linear process. That is what I expected, but I discovered that grief is not tidy or linear. I learned this when my beloved father passed away just shy of his 55th birthday. Now, I often compare grief to the ocean. Some days grief will gently lap at your feet and others it will knock you over like a tsunami. Unlike the tides, grief is hard to predict. You never know what will trigger a rip current of anger or a plunging breaker of depression. It could be a song, a color, a scent, a meal, a holiday, or just about anything that conjures a memory.

For instance, I watched the last Harry Potter movie this weekend and spent the entire film sitting bolt upright weeping uncontrollably. Over the course of the eight movies I have become rather fond of the Potter characters, but it wasn't the death of Fred Weasley or the flashbacks of Snape's unrequited love for Harry's mother that caused the tears. The movie reminded me of my Dad and how much I miss him. As Harry prepared to battle Voldemort he was joined by his lost loved ones, and they gave him the strength to face his own mortality. Oh, how I wish I could have the Resurrection Stone for a day. I'd probably pick my upcoming wedding day, so my Dad could walk me down the aisle. I would give anything for him to meet the man I love. They have so much in common and could spend hours talking about tools and classic cars. I take comfort knowing that even if I cannot see my Dad on my wedding day, he will be in my heart as he is every day. However, I'd still love to see his jolly face and round belly and hear his deep, baritone voice and contagious laughter. No one could get a party started or keep it going like Marty Brown.

It's hard to believe it's been more than five years since my Dad died. The first year, I was living in denial. I was far from home, so it was easy for me to pretend I'd see him at Christmas, which also happened to be his birthday. Christmas came and he wasn't there, but we took a family cruise to the Caribbean as a distraction. It was easier than going home and seeing that his Griswold-style Christmas light display wasn't up. Swimming with the dolphins and feeding the stingrays helped us forget all those holiday traditions that were now incomplete without Dad. Like who would read The Christmas Story? I muddled through that first year in a state of numbness. I'm a very emotional person, but that year I shut down. I typically cry at everything - cotton commercials, nature shows, movie previews, etc. I once started bawling at a preview that was simply a bottle floating on the ocean (Kevin Costner's "Message in a Bottle"). Not that year. My eyes stayed dry and I did my best to pretend his death never happened.

Then, reality slapped me in the face and I was forced to enter the next stage of grief - anger. The slap was discovering I wasn't the only one pretending. My husband had only been playing the part of a loyal and loving partner. In reality, he'd been trolling for women on the Internet. You probably think my anger would be directed at my cheating husband, but I was really angry at God for taking away the one person who could help me sort out this mess. For the first time in my life I needed my Dad and he wasn't there.

My husband was denying everything despite overwhelming evidence of his wrong-doing. I knew my Dad could get my husband to come clean, even if it meant making him suck the floor. This was one of my Dad's creative punishments from back in the days when we loved watching GLOW (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling). My Dad hated lying and was quick to point out that a half truth is really a lie. If he thought we weren't being honest, the punishment was sucking the floor and he'd take us down with a Half Nelson. It sounds barbaric, but it was truly a fun and effective way to drive home the point that lying would not be tolerated. It also spun off our slow-motion karate fights. For a house full of three daughters, we sure could throw down. But I digress.

Besides yearning for the truth, I was desperate for direction on how to move forward. Will true repentance lead to reconciliation? Is divorce okay? I had so many questions and the only advice I truly wanted was from my Dad. My Dad gave the best advice in the whole world. My Dad could ask a few simple questions and in answering the mysteries of life would be revealed. He had a magical way of showing you the answers to all life's troubles lie within us. It just took a little gentle coaxing from him. Without his coaxing, I was terribly lost.

And so the bargaining began... I pleaded with God for my Dad to come in a dream, so he could show me the way. Sadly, the dream didn't come and neither need sleep most nights. Very quickly bargaining turned to depression.

My depression was often disguised as mania. I was determined not to wallow in self-pity, so I threw myself into constant motion. If I was always on the go, I couldn't fall apart. The tears were back, but I kept them contained to my morning shower and only after completing a 6 a.m. fitness boot camp. I kept a grueling travel schedule. If I wasn't working, I was spending time with friends or running at the park. I didn't want to be alone. Alone meant too much time to think and worry. Alone meant thinking what a failure I am because my marriage didn't work. Alone meant watching all the seasons of Sex in the City, and wondering how I would make it as a single girl. I'd been with my husband since my freshman year in college a decade ago. Dating was a terrifying idea. Alone meant missing my Dad and feeling the enormous weight of losing him.

However, it was when I finally allowed myself to be still and alone that I heard my Dad's voice. He said, "Amanda, life isn't fair."

It was a phrase I heard all growing up like when I asked why I had to drive a station wagon to high school rather than my dream car, the Porsche Carrera 911. My Dad taught me to love that cherry red wagon, which he dubbed the Fat Man’s Sports car when he drove it. He talked about its great pick-up and V-6 engine, and how it could turn on a dime. Still to this day, that wagon ranks as my favorite car. No other car seems to drive as well. I don’t know if that’s true, or my Dad just did such a great sales job. He was a mighty persuasive man. He taught me it's always better to appreciate what you have than to bemoan what you lack.

Dad believed that in life it’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it. I can hear him now preaching about the power of a positive attitude. He made one of my siblings write an essay about attitude as another of his creative punishments.

All of my Dad's life lessons came flooding back. I heard him say, "Change is just a bend in the road unless you forget to turn."

That is when I stumbled into acceptance. I accepted that my marriage wasn't going to be the fairy tale happily-ever-after that I imagined. I accepted the uncertain future. Like Charlie Brown, life had pulled the football away and I landed flat on my back, but I was determined to get back up and take another shot. I made the turn. I faced the road ahead. There were definitely bumps along the way, but I found a path that has brought me incredible happiness and unconditional love. I still grief for what I've lost, but it is a GOOD GRIEF. A grief that makes me deeply grateful for all the blessings in my life.