A Tribute to my Dad

Leaving his burial, I share my reflections.

I just finished living what could be the most anticipated 48 hours of my life so far, so I thought it might be wise to reflect on this moment.

Yesterday, I set out from LAX to get myself to Hartford, CT. A lot of my family is buried in Hartford except for my Uncle Miles. And so, I headed there to see my father’s ashes placed in his final resting place.

On the way in, I flew through Atlanta. There's not much to note here besides that I was delayed an hour and drank four Arnold Palmers while experiencing Atlanta Airport’s Terminal B with broken air conditioning. I worked most of the trip and read a little. When I arrived in Hartford, the airport was mostly unlit and sad piano music was playing. It was also raining. That felt unnecessary from the universe—but I digress.

I made my way to Hertz Rent-a-Car, where I was given the keys to a big GMC vehicle of some sort. When I got in the car, it was nearly 1 a.m. I could not, for the life of me, find the gear shift—only to discover it was under the radio screen? Weird.

I sat for a minute before heading off toward the Hampton Inn. I needed a moment with my feelings—a mix of dread and anticipation, and a lot of just delirious humor at the fact that I was sitting in a rented car in Hartford, when two years ago I could barely drive and renting a car seemed like something only grown-ups did. There was also some beautiful acceptance I felt that hours were ticking by and that I was getting through it. I find that when I am experiencing something difficult, one of the most comforting things to notice is that time keeps moving—and therefore, with no effort from myself, I move forward.

When I left the Hertz lot, the guy checking my ID asked me if I had ever heard of Quincy, MA. That earned a chuckle from me. After that, I took off toward my hotel. Some Donna Summer was playing. I’ve really been into ’70s music lately.

I made my way down I-91, taking it slow. There was light rain and I could feel the car sitting on top of the rain, not the pavement. My mom always lectures me about how dangerous hydroplaning is. One of my friends recently hydroplaned and spun out, so I had no ambition to go faster, no matter how many people went around me or flashed their high beams in frustration at my objectively fast 50 mph.

At that moment, I found it poetic that my dad taught me to drive—and taught me what to do if you start hydroplaning. You don’t hit the brakes; you slowly stop accelerating. Thankfully, I was safely on my way.

I passed the exit for Waterbury. It brought up memories of the four years I spent in boarding school there. I struggle to conceptualize that my dad is buried 30 minutes from where I went to high school. I spent so much time there once, and now I am so far away. I’m never in that area anymore; it's become nearly foreign to me. It would have been nice to have some time to stop by and visit some of my old teachers. I’m so grateful for those four years.

I made it to my hotel and parked the car. I got out in the parking lot and enjoyed a light, delirious laugh. How the hell did I get here?

I collapsed into bed. The area was totally quiet, as the countryside often is.

I woke up to a few messages from my brother telling me he was leaving for the cemetery shortly. Honestly, I had been planning on cutting it close. But, if he was going early, I knew I should probably go as well—at least to get there and see the site before my stepmother arrived.

I had brought one tote with one dress and sweater in it for the big day, and a bag of makeup, of course. I chose a white dress and sweater with a beige trench and a kitten heel. It felt respectful without being overly dreary. I am slowly becoming weary of black being the automatic choice for funerals and burials.

Pulling up to the cemetery, I was impressed by how imposing and grand the gate was. The lush green trees filled out behind them. It was beautiful. I could not believe I went to school for four years just thirty minutes away from where my grandparents, uncles—my whole family—were buried and never went to see them. I simply did not know it was there.

I had a PDF on my phone with a hand-drawn map of how to find the site. I drove past beautiful crypts and monuments. The feeling grew that my father would indeed be buried in good company.

Pulling up to the site, I was shocked by the size of the mausoleum crypt. It really is beautiful. Both my brothers and their kids had arrived by the time I got there. I plopped out of the car and one of my nephews passed me a coffee. I had to smile—drinking Dunkin’ Donuts back on the East Coast with some of the waspiest people I know in front of the waspiest gravesite ever. A perfect spot for Dad.

There was a plaque that read my dad's name and dates of birth and death, along with an empty table where the urn would go. I hugged my nephews—all six in attendance, a rare reunion—and caught up with some of my cousins. It felt good to finally be around my family after a long stretch of grief and waiting for this day.

The priest pulled up in a red Mini Cooper convertible—top up, of course, due to the prior forecast of rain. He seemed nice.

My family had gathered by the time my dad’s ashes arrived with his wife. It was my first time seeing the blue urn chosen to hold him. When she went to place it down, the urn nearly teetered off the table. To her credit, she caught it.

The priest said a few words. Then my brother did. Then we prayed.

And just like that, it was over. My cousin was hosting a reception nearby. We were all headed there—except for my father’s wife and her daughter. They chose to head north for a yacht club event. No one was offended that she couldn’t make it. I said goodbye, registering that this might be the last time I see my father’s wife. An interesting feeling, considering we occupied the same home every other weekend for nearly 10 years. A relief.

I was the second-to-last person to leave. I wanted to go up and see the urn and say a last goodbye, but his wife was there doing such. So I stood back a bit and resolved to come back soon. It’s nice to know that my dad is laid to rest somewhere I can return.

My cousin’s home is the stuff my dreams are made of—on the water and airy. A total Nancy Meyers house. My nephew remarked that all Morgan houses look the same: many paintings of sailboats, many sailing trophies and yacht club glasses, a decoy duck or two, and the same historic brown wood desk. He was totally right. I made a joke that mine wouldn’t look like that because my dad’s wife has all his things, so I likely won’t have the same memorabilia. It wasn’t really funny.

My cousin had laid out a table with photos of my father. I added one of him and me together. I find it really hard to feel difficult feelings with company around. I’m never quite sure what to do if someone tries to comfort me. Many months of anticipation to finally bury him had ended, and yet I still feel a lack of closure. But I’m of the opinion that closure is ours to claim. So here I am, writing to sort out that feeling.

Looking at those photos of my dad as a young man—notably with hair—I couldn’t help but regret that I don’t know more about his perspective on his 95 years of life. The 24 years I had with him seem like a small blip in such an interesting and full life. Of course, I know I was immensely important to him, and those 24 years mattered. But I wish I knew more about the rest of the years. I know my brothers and I will have many catch-ups to come.

My brother says our dad was one of the last of a rare breed. A human link between the Gilded and the technological age. He knew so many histories. My dad once told me he used to do the accounting math I do for work by hand—because computers only became commercially available after he had completed the early years of his career in the 1950s. Excel was only invented in 1985, when he was 55 and had already been a banker for a long while. I wish I had asked more questions, but I was always so shy around my dad.

I’m not sure if I was intimidated or nervous. Until age six, I was a daddy’s girl. I would teach him ballet. He would make sure to carry me high enough to see all things. We often wore matching outfits, styled by my creative and thoughtful mother. He taught me how to ski. I would steal his shaving cream to make “art” on the walls.

When my parents split, I became very quiet. And very anxious. I just wanted everyone to like me—both my parents, and my dad’s new wife. Once I got a little older, I found the easiest way to connect with my dad was around sports and academics.

Although my dad did not love school himself—he told me I got my dyslexia from him, and that they just never called it that in his day—he loved to talk about my school experiences. Like me, he had nearly illegible handwriting and struggled with spelling. Every time I write by hand, I’m reminded of him because our penmanship is similar.
He loved to ski and sail, and had rowed crew in high school. So I joined the ski team, crew team, and for one season, the sailing team. All of which was great —but it was even more amazing when my dad could make it to a regatta.

My dad was very quiet, always listening and absorbing information. He was often the most interesting person in a room, and never the loudest. This year, my resolution was not to be interesting but to be interested. My dad embodied that. He was always learning from those around him and cared deeply, even if he wasn’t actively contributing to the conversation.

I left my cousin's house today certainly feeling less alone—and lucky. Lucky to have my dad’s genes, spelling errors and chicken-scratch handwriting included. Lucky to have such a supportive family he brought me into. And really lucky to have two older brothers and two sisters-in-law who know the ropes. And six nephews (who feel like cousins) I get to know more as adults now.

I love you, JAM, you will are very missed.