Long walks help ease the pain three years later

I’ve been walking a lot lately. Some of that is out of necessity. Because of a recurring back injury, I’ve altered my workout routine. No more running or elliptical. No more lifting like I’m training for the Olympic trials.

Combine that with a treadmill that needs to be repaired, and the current regime includes lifting like I’m 46, some work on the stair climber and quite a bit of walking in our neighborhood, 100-degree temperatures be damned.

I used to hate walking, mostly because I wasn’t burning nearly as many calories as I would running or spending too much time on the stair climber. But I’ve found my walks this summer to be therapeutic. I watch and listen to the sights and sounds of College Hill, but, mostly, I think.

I think about work (How am I going to get that done on time?). I think about sports (Are the Royals ever going to be good again?). I think about society and how nasty we’ve become to each other (Another blog for another day). I think about my wife and kids (Who do I need to get where later today?)

Recently, though, I’ve thought mostly about my dad. In the weeks leading up to the third anniversary of his death, which is today, dozens of memories of the old man rolled through my head during those walks.

Neighbors and others in our neighborhood have probably wondered why the guy in a Washburn hat and T-shirt is laughing by himself on a sidewalk under the baking sun. On several occasions, I’ve remember the lessons via one-liners: “Zero plus zero equals zero,” “There’s an ass for every seat,” “You’re like a bull in a China shop” and “You big dummy” (stolen from one of his favorites, Redd Foxx).

Last week, a few of the folks likely stared out their windows as the same guy in a Washburn hat and T-shirt had tears running down his face. On that day, Pearl Jam’s “Just Breathe” came on Pandora. It was one of the songs we played at Dad’s funeral, and I still cry like a baby when I hear it.

I’m still processing my father’s death three years later. I miss him dearly. I miss his hearty laugh. I miss his smile when he was proud of his sons or grandchildren. I miss the way he respected my wife, even though their political views are polar opposite (We could learn a lot seeing how they treated each other despite this). I miss the way he treated my autistic stepson and how much he appreciated my stepdaughter asking to see him a few days before he passed. I miss his nod of appreciation when my brother and I made him proud.

From time to time, Dad spoke to me about two things that he felt I could do better: 1. Stop working out so much. “You’re going to hurt your back and make yourself sick.” (He was right). 2. Stop and smell the roses.

He never lectured, at least when my brother and I were grown. He treated us like men, but always offered advice when he knew we needed it. It took me a long time to hear what he said about toning down my routine and enjoying life. Ironically, that’s exactly what I’m doing on the long walks in my neighborhood.

Love you, old man.