The following tribute was originally published in the American Mothers Inc. Blog in March 2015:
A mother thinks of her son and remembers her father, who was recently buried with full military honors in Biloxi, Mississippi.
I never got the chance to share this joke with my dad. I think he would have laughed.
One Sunday Pastor Joe played hooky to golf. He was enjoying himself on the course, when an angel said to God, “Are you going to let him get away with this? Do something!” God said, “Watch this.” Just then, Pastor Joe hit a beautiful 425 yard tee shot right into the cup for a double-eagle hole-in-one. The angel exclaimed, “Why did you reward him?!” God replied, “Who’s he gonna tell?”
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| Me and my Daddy |
I’m not sure it was a Sunday when my dad hit the only hole-in-one of his life, but none of his friends saw it, either. He was trying to catch up to them, but they were still one green ahead. That was some 40 years ago, and might have been the last time Dad was ever late for his foursome’s Tee time. But it made a great story!
Dad had a lot of great stories. He’d had a lot of great experiences. Fortunately, he loved to share them, with both words and deeds.
My dad was an avid scuba diver. When I was small, there were big sea shells and hunks of coral perched all around the house to supplement tales of his encounters with eels and sharks. When I was 3 years old, Dad taught me how to snorkel, so that I, too, could see what was beneath the waves.
Dad was a skydiver, too. Instead of tossing me out of a Cessna (for surely my mother would have disapproved), he took me on a roller coaster and together we laughed down the big hills with the wind screaming in our ears and butterflies in our stomachs. After, Dad told me that it felt a little bit like jumping out of an airplane.
In 1976 my father took me to his US Naval Review office way up in the World Trade Center. We looked out the window onto a panoramic view of New York Harbor where dozens of ships filed past the Statue of Liberty for the International Naval Review, part of the US Bicentennial celebration. With fervor, Dad pointed out to me every boat in the harbor by name and type: vintage tall ships, the boat that the President was on, and the vessels of all the visiting nations. He was like a kid in a candy store! “This is history in the making,” he delighted. “Nobody will ever see all these ships together like this again.”
When I was preparing a vacation to Barcelona, Dad told me that our ancestors could be traced back to Spain, to a little town north of Pamplona, where they do the Running of the Bulls. On the map, I found the town called Olague, my maiden surname. My whole life, wherever I went, or wanted to go, Dad could tell me something cool about the place.
After retiring (first from the US Navy, then from the family restaurant, and finally from the Mississippi Department of Tourism), my dad volunteered as a tour guide at Beauvoir, Jefferson Davis’ last home. For many years, he dressed in period costume and happily beguiled thousands of Gulf Coast visitors with lesser-known facts about the place and its people.
I credit my dad’s enthusiastic stories for my own sense of adventure, love of travel, and joy in learning new things.
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| Three generations |
My Brother and sister and I have Dad to thank for more than just our good looks (and our height). Also, too, our natural sense of rhythm, ready humor, easy-going manner, fondness for science fiction, love of playing card games, and penchant for serving others.
Everyone who crossed his path witnessed my father’s joie de vivre, through his wonderful stories; appreciation of other cultures; affection for animated jokes; his laugh; his love of music, cooking, wine, dancing, animals, and cool cars; and his passion for our nation’s history, that he is now part of.
I’m glad that my child had a chance to know my dad, and hope that Dad’s marvelous traits have passed down from grandfather to grandson.
Thanks for the memories, Dad.
In loving memory of Jerry G. Olague
