Resa Writes

It has been 367 days since my dad died, a milestone that feels both distant and fresh, as if time has played tricks with my sense of reality. The pain of losing him is still palpable, lingering like a light fog that never quite lifts.

I miss everything about my dad. But what I miss the most about my dad is just talking to him, hearing his voice, and listening to his infinite wisdom.

Some of the most engaging and meaningful conversations I have ever experienced were with my dad. The best ones were riding in the car, sitting in a hospital room, or waiting for my mom somewhere. We didn’t agree on everything—such as politics, which we had differing opinions on—but we never argued. He offered many insightful and thought-provoking perspectives. I didn’t always agree. But I appreciated his perspective, and he always listened to mine.

There have been so many moments in the past year I’ve wished I could’ve shared with my dad, because the conversation that would ensue would be amazing. Like, how I had to go back to student teaching just days after the funeral even though I was not ready, and my cooperating teacher told me not to tell the kids anything about my dad dying, saying that kids don’t understand death. But I told them anyway because someone asked if my dad was still sick, and someone asked if he had passed away. And after I told them yes, a girl raised her hand and said, “Ms. Delaney you look pretty today,” and a few days later they all gave me a card they had written on their own, simply saying, “We’re sorry your dad died.”

Or when I walked the stage and received my second master’s degree, I wanted to tell him that I looked for him in the crowds, even though I knew he wasn’t there. And teared up when I remembered how excited he was about watching my graduation on TV.

I wanted to tell him how I landed that teaching job and ended up loving it just as much as he knew I would. But I still hate the drive because I drive past the place where he died, on my daily route to work.

Or when I was a month or two into teaching, and I was standing outside with a student at dismissal time and we started talking about dads. He looked at me and said “Ms. Delaney, do you have a dad?” and I said, “Yes, but he’s in heaven now.” My young friend looked at me seriously and then pointed up to the sky and said, “I think your dad is up there somewhere, flying high above the clouds.” I looked up with him and smiled, as a wave of peace washed over me. And I thought to myself, oh, how I wish I could tell my dad about this conversation. He loved talking about heaven, a place I imagine he is these days.

I wish I could tell him that recently I found his box of treasures that he took with him when my parents sold their house, all his most treasured items packed neatly in a small cardboard box, and just how much it proved how very simple he was.

If I could, I'd tell him his prosthetic legs are still in my garage, and although I know where to take them now, I can’t quite seem to let them go. But when I'm ready, someone in a third-world country will be able to walk with them.

Mostly, though, I just want to tell him how I will never get used to a world without him in it.

My dad, wise as he was, would respond with either a thoughtful conversation or a corny joke—or both, depending on the day.

He was good like that.

Finding my father's cherished collection of Karen Carpenter vinyls in my garage yesterday was a heartwarming surprise. Dad loved her music and bought the entire collection the day she died.

Playing her soulful melodies at his visitation was a fitting tribute to his memory. This particular album holds a special place in my heart, as it was the one our family enjoyed together the most. I might just invest in a record player to relive those moments and celebrate the joy her music brought him.

I have reached 200 followers! Thank you for your continued support. I could not have done it without each of you. 🙏🤗🎉

My dad lived and breathed vending for over forty years. Vending machines were how my parents put food on the table, how they kept a roof over our head, how basically all of our needs were met.

When I was in high school, I used to spend summers working with my dad and his vending business. We’d get in the truck at the crack of dawn and spend the day driving all over the cities, filling machines full of pop, candy, chips, sandwiches, ice cream, and more. We kept people’s stomachs full. Including ours. Perks of the job were if you were hungry? Just grab a snack off the truck. Thirsty? Grab a cold beverage while filling the machine.

That job was the best job I ever had not just because of the free snacks, but because I also got to spend the days with my dad, just the two of us driving across the Twin Cities filling machines. My dad was a very social guy and I got to watch him interact with his customers, joking, and shooting the breeze, and getting them to buy more stuff.

Once in a while he’d ask if I was hungry and I’d say yes, and I’d start walking to the back of his truck and he’d shake his head and we’d instead drive somewhere and sit down to eat, just the two of us.
My dad took pride in his business and how he operated things. He had this whole meticulous system about filling the machines, and a method to everything. You put the pop cans in, top first otherwise they’d get stuck. Certain places couldn’t have Hershey’s bars because it was too hot, and they’d melt in the machine. And the chips. You had to tuck your corners of the bags a certain way, so they wouldn’t get stuck.

A few months ago, I was with him at the hospital for a doctor’s appointment and we saw a vending machine room. It had been six years since he'd retired but he still got excited about vending machines. I asked him if he wanted to check out the room and his face lit up. He looked at the machine and analyzed its contents. The prices, too high. The variety, not enough. The chips. Not filled right. They’d get stuck.

I asked him if he wanted a snack, and he nodded excitedly, but then said he didn’t have any cash. That’s okay, I told him, and I swiped my card and bought two bags of chips.

A nearby hospital volunteer saw us eating our snacks and joined our conversation. My dad explained to her how he’d done this type of work for over forty years. In fact, he’d had machines in the building across the street. He told her of the experiences he’d had, the people he’d met, the places he’d been.

But his favorite thing about vending, he’d said, was when his wife and each of his three daughters had taken turns helping him out on the route, and the time he got to have with them when they did.

The other day, I bought a bag of chips from a vending machine. As I stood there, I thought about that moment at the hospital, which I didn’t know then but would end up being our last real moment together before his quick decline and subsequent death. I thought about how I’d never be able to enjoy a vending machine snack with him again.

Then the chips weren’t filled the way my dad would’ve done it. I thought about my dad as I swiped my card and pressed the buttons. And then, my chips got stuck. I didn’t shake the machine, though. Dad hated it when people did that.

So, I bought another bag, just like Dad would have told me was the better thing to do.

Except now I had two bags of chips.

But then I realized I was sitting there with two bags of chips.

One for me, and one for my dad, who was probably up there somewhere watching me, with a wink and a smile.

My dad passed away last week. The grief is profound.
But you know, my dad left a lasting legacy, and there are so many things I can only smile about when I think about my dad.

My dad was one of the most selfless people I have ever met and will probably ever meet. He was most proud of his wife and family and wanted us all to be happy. So he rarely if ever complained. This meant always being the last one to use the bathroom in a house full of ladies and eating foods (some for many years) that he didn’t like. All he cared about is whether we were happy.

My dad was also one of the friendliest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know how many times we’d be out and about and we’d see him chatting with someone and we’d ask him who he was talking to and he’d say, “No idea. Just some guy in the store, I guess.”

My dad was also one of the most patient people I’ve ever met. After all, he taught my sisters and I to drive, and speaking from my own experience as a parent I know how much patience that requires. I was a tough one to teach; I failed my drivers’ exam three times. But that did not deter my dad from encouraging me to keep trying. Did I mention that he was also one of the most optimistic people I’ve ever met?

My dad was also one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. If he were here with us now, I’m sure he’d agree. After all, my dad was notorious for cracking jokes…and then laughing at his own jokes so hard he’d have tears streaming down his face. I’d like to be able to share a joke he cracked but I don’t remember many of them. what I really remember more about any of his jokes was the way his whole face lit up as he laughed at his own humor, and the memory of that is enough to make me smile, and that’s what I’ll remember the most.

My dad was one of my biggest supporters in life. I’m sure there were times I made life choices he didn’t agree with but he never got in the way of me figuring things out on my own, and when I eventually did, he was there to tell me how very proud he was of me all along.

All of these things I have just shared with you are qualities my dad embodied up until his final days on earth. Even in his final days, when he was in pain, and confused, and uncomfortable, he had enough lucidity to pray for the nurse who brought him a glass of milk, or “Moo juice,” as he called it. He told her she was doing God’s work. Selfless. That’s the kind of person my dad was.

One thing that is abundantly certain is that my dad left a legacy that will be remembered for years. He left this world a better place, and I am so incredibly grateful for this wonderful man that I was blessed to have been able to call “Dad.”