My Dad passed away on February 8th at the age of 63. He would have been 64 on the 24th (this past Thursday). I have been wanting to write about my Dad for awhile but haven't heard the time or the appropirate words. I'm not even sure if this will be the words that come now will be perfect but I want to say all the things (and more) that I couldn't say at his funeral.
I am completely and utterly a Daddy's girl. My mother passed away when I was 8 so since then it has always been just my Dad and my sister living at home, save for a brief year long stint in Houston while he adjusted to being a widower to two daughters, one of which (my sister) was pre-teen. That alone has made me respect my Dad beyond the telling of it. He has four sisters and he was a man trying to raise girls-he could have easily have shuffled us off to one of them and let them raise us but he didn't. After that one year, we were never far from our father at all with the exception of when I went to U of H. Not that he was so prideful that he didn't ask them for help he had no earthly idea what to do (such as prom dress shopping) but for the most part he did everything himself.
My Dad was not perfect but then what parent is? Hell, what person is? My Dad went without so that my sister and I could have what we wanted and needed. Looking back and remembering what everything must have been like I wonder how the hell he afforded my viola lessons in high school because those were not cheap. I wonder how my sister and I were able to go on all the class trips we wanted to. I remember him being at every performance of mine, both Orchestra and Theatre and taking me clear across town (or enlistnig KaCee who as the older one of the two had to help out a lot since the hours he worked could be wonky) to audtiion for All-City and All-Regional Orchestra and then having to fight the craziness the year I made it just to sit there and hear me play (not even being able to see me) for the first thirty minutes of the program. I remember him helping me sell lollipops and then covering what I didn't when my Fine Arts Department went to DisneyWorld my sophomore year.
My Dad was also a very open and friendly man. Many friends have come over to the house for get togethers and get taken in as his "kids". They all called him Pops, or Sarge. It was very rare to hear someone call him Billy after the first few times they met him. He was so generous sometimes to a fault and had a big heart and greeted everyone with a big smile and an occasion "Where have you been?"
My Dad was a great man-like many people he made mistakes but he did a lot in his life that not many people can claim they did or would do given the hand that life has dealt them. Everyday is hard to get through without him being here because he's always been around. Even when I was in school I knew he was a phone call or a three hour drive away. And now there is no way to talk to him which will be an adjustment for both my sister and I but we will make it. It helps to know that he's not in pain if he was in the last few weeks since he had been sick (and he wouldn't have let anyone know unless it was horrible because he was also a private man). It helps to know that he's with our mother and our Savior. All these help and remembering them will help gradually make the pain not a sharp stab but a dull ache over time since it will never go away.
Billy R. Crockett
2/24/47-2/8/2011
