When I close my eyes and picture Dick in my mind, I see him in his plaid shirt, knitted vest handmade by Carol, and bright blue jacket.
Dick was a creature of habit.
His daily exercise and only chore was going out to the yard to refill the bird feeders.
I see him driving down the road in that antique Suburban on his way to the post office.
I see him patiently sitting in a pub for hours on end, flirting with barmaids, chatting with locals, and reading his book while Carol and I were off shopping for old treasures.
I see him in Charlie Clark’s at precisely 4:00 p.m. every afternoon, sitting at the first table, always joined by a cast of good friends, sometimes flirting with the waitress du jour, and sometimes scowling at her, drinking his beer in a warm glass.
I see him dragging heavy logs in from the porch and throwing them into the fire.
I see him sitting in his comfortable old blue chair with his “clicker” – enough said!
I see Carol serving him his nightly dose of ice cream with “candy” on top.
I see him slowly getting ready to retire for the night, lazily removing one shoe and one sock at a time over a two-hour period, while tenderly trying not to disturb sweet little Nellie asleep on his lap.
I see him speeding along across the country in the huge U-Haul truck housing my worldly possessions, sometimes in front of me and sometimes behind me – thank you, Dick.
I hear him telling story after story detailing his lifetime adventures and travels.
I loved hearing Carol call him “Dickie.”
I loved hearing daughter-in-law Carol call him “Daddy Dick.”
And I really loved the time in Cornwall, England, when Carol told the barmaid that “we’re waiting for ‘our husband’ but we’ll go ahead and order our drinks until he gets here.”
The time that Dick amazed me the most was 13 years ago when he, the scientifically trained physician, took a walk on the metaphysical side by insisting that he take along with him onto the operating table the bag of healing stones I gave him – and afterwards admitting that we’ll never know if they were responsible for such a miraculous recovery from his life-threatening surgery.
And what I’ll always remember most is Dick saying, “I’ve had just about all the fun I can possibly stand, so I’m going to bed.”
Good night, Dick, I love you!