I just can’t believe he’s gone. 

I guess I said that out loud to the nurse tech standing next to me at my dad’s bedside because after we hugged and cried some more she said “No. No he’s not. He’s not gone. He lives on in you. In your heart. In your laugh. In your daughters. And in your memories. He can never be gone.” 

My dad. My guy. My bud. Gone but not really gone? I don’t know how to make sense of that yet.

You should know, my dad was an alcoholic. It’s not the kind of thing you normally mention or celebrate when someone passes but I know he wouldn’t mind me telling you. It’s worth mentioning because, when I was eleven years old he went into rehab, and he never had another drink. That’s 39 years of sobriety. THIRTY NINE. He told me that he had a choice to make – his family or the booze. It wasn’t easy, but it was a no brainer. He chose us. I am who I am today because he chose us. My heart actually aches when I really consider this.

My dad was sweet and selfless and sentimental and unassuming. I can’t count the number of times he held a door for me (or any woman, really), paid for dinner, pulled out my chair, thanked someone or apologized for everything and nothing at all, or insisted I take $20 for my troubles. You’ve heard the expression “measure twice and cut once”? Well my dad would measure 5 times and cut once. Not because he second guessed himself or didn’t know what he was doing – because he did! He was very handy and crafty and could fix or build just about anything. It was because he loved the process. He took his time and sat with it. He talked about it. He could turn a 20 minute project into a whole day endeavor. It drove my mom crazy.

My dad was a simple guy who had some strong affections. He studied the space program and was a World War II history buff. He loved little things like sautéed mushrooms, WJR radio, Camaro cars, the Mackinac Bridge, Field of Dreams, his Eames chair, crossword puzzles, good French Onion soup (he was quite particular), and lately – of all things – KFC and Diet Vernors. Ha.

But then he REALLY loved a few things. And he loved them BIG.

He was undoubtedly the proudest MSU alum there ever was. He followed the Spartan religiously and had hockey season tickets. Time stopped on game day at our house. If we weren’t at the game, it was on TV or radio and I can still hear him clapping and cheering when they’d score. He was like a little kid on Christmas when in East Lansing. We didn’t dare suggest there was any other way to do it – we’d get to campus hours before the game. He insisted it was to get good parking and avoid traffic, but we knew actually it was to allow time to go to the bookstore, eat at Harrison Road House, drive by Phillips Hall, walk along the Cedar River, and soak it all in. My brother toughed out more of those trips down Memory Lane than did I.

Oh, then there’s DeTour Village; the home of our family cabin. That little cabin is in the U.P., and I often describe the location by asking “Have you ever heard of Drummond Island?”  because NO ONE knows where DeTour is. But it was my dad’s favorite place on Earth and he loved to share it with people he cared about. It’s where we will spread his ashes this summer. My grandpa built that log cabin before my dad was born and my dad’s earliest memories are of being there. My grandma was a school teacher, so they summered there each year. My dad’s cousin John – who remained his best friend all his life   - would go along, and they enjoyed the kind of summer that every boy in those days dreamed of…swimming, fishing, boating, skipping stones, riding bikes, and listening to extended family tell stories around the kitchen table. My dad loved the freighters and told me many stories of the river traffic during the war. He knew their smoke stacks and ship size and captain’s names. He built models of freighters in his later years and actually spent time on a few of the boats.  He shared his love of these ships with me and my girls, and we made our own memories of running to the beach and waving to them or chasing the special ones to the Soo to watch them go through the Locks. Not everyone (anyone?) sees the beauty in these vessels, but we always will because he did.

My dad is survived by his wife - my mom - Deanna Kushner Butterfield. They were married +55 years and although Alzheimer’s robs her of many moments these days, it’s with some mercy that she won’t grieve him now. He was preceded in death by his parents William Clark and Isabel Sparling Butterfied as well as his older sister Gael. He shared a special relationship with and was deeply loved by his son Paul and was a devoted and ever so proud Poppy to his three granddaughters Anna, Caroline and Lauren. His very close friend Dean has been a constant and loyal friend over the years and an incredible source of support. My beloved Uncle John shares the sadness of our deep loss.

My dad has a quirky habit of pulling the tabs off his pop cans when he opened them. I’d find them all over the kitchen. If you think about it, next time you enjoy one, I hope you might pull it off and think of my dad and know how much he was loved.