I found my dad’s wallet in my move. It was the last one he carried before he died. At first I was a bit taken aback to be opening this time capsule.
Considering today is the 50th anniversary of his passing, it is only fitting I open it up and spill out the contents.
Dad was a young man, really, at his passing. Just a few weeks shy of his 56th birthday. When I turned 70, I opined that when my dad was my age he’d been dead for 15 years. He’s been gone that long.
Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter weren’t anywhere near the White House. His beloved Tigers had won the Series a few years before but the Lions and Pistons were still pathetic. Cars still had carburetors and cell phones and desktop computers were science fiction.
He never met 4 of his 7 grandchildren. His mother and most of his siblings were still alive. And Tucson was a desert stopover town of 250,000.
Opening this relic reveals much about the man. There is his driver license and membership cards to the American Legion and the his state professional association. Several documents related to his military service (separation papers and proof of satisfactory service). Photos of my sister and her oldest son as a grade schooler (he turns 60 next spring). And clippings of her engagement and my brother’s military deployment. No cash or credit cards. Some notes and a business card from his attorney.
Lots of typical stuff. Not 2025, but more vintage 1975.
Putting all this together with some recent stories my sister has told me and the man unfolds out of the leather just like those old papers. He was a real person, a dad, a grandfather, a husband and brother and a friend to many. I recall he could start a conversation with anyone. I’m proud to say I inherited that trait.
While he passed away that cold January day at what was then University Hospital (a place one of his grandsons would study), this ancient billfold brought him back to life for a few moments. And he lives on in the eyes and laughter and personalities of his children and grandchildren.
Nice to spend time with you, Dad. While it was a quiet “conversation,” I felt you in the room.
Relentless
