Today I honor my dad.
He passed away a few years ago, and last fall we finally held his funeral. We delayed it, not by choice exactly, but with a kind of passive acceptance that it would happen in due time at the right time.
Underneath it all, I think waiting let us hold off the finality a funeral would force us to face. This is the eulogy I wrote and delivered that day.
One of the things I've learned since becoming a parent is that children don't just inherit our genes. They inherit our words, our rituals, our quirks, our stories, and the ways we love.
Looking back, I can see pieces of my dad everywhere in me.
This is for him.
My favorite thing about Dad was that he was always an old man.
He was forty-eight when I was born, and he dressed and behaved like a man from another era.
He was beautiful, with blue eyes that twinkled and a big, gracious smile he'd wrap around you. I was always so proud to introduce him to my friends and teachers. I could trust he'd be dressed to the nines, shake your hand like he meant it, and look at you like he'd never forget you.
Even his handwriting belonged to another time—calligraphic, deliberate—especially compared to the bubbly script my mom preferred.
He used words no one else I knew did. He once told me off for expectorating in public and would often ask where I was gallivanting off to next. I was grateful when those words appeared in Dickens novels I read at The Kent School. Only then did I appreciate that all the language he taught me wasn't for nothing after all.
Throughout school and my career, people have often told me I am an old soul. I always respond proudly:
"I was raised by an old man."
Dad raised all of us to have a voice—to share our feelings and opinions without fear of reprimand—because we saw him do the same.
He taught me resilience. He gave me hell when I needed it, and sometimes when I didn't, and he knew when to apologize. He taught me that people can heal from hard things. And man oh man, had we faced our fair share of them.
Above all, he showed us how to love—big, loud, and without condition.
When Dad used to drop me off at elementary school after I'd stayed the night with him, he never just pulled up to the curb and said goodbye like most parents. He'd park the car, walk around to open my door, as gentlemen do, and then kiss me on each of my ears, my eyes, and my nose.
I'd run as fast as I could to the school door, covered in kisses and red cheeks.
I'll also never forget the time he called the principal at Manchester Elementary and somehow convinced her to make an announcement over the loudspeaker:
"There's a special message for Anne Hatfield from her father, who wants to wish her a rabbit, rabbit."
I not only had to explain how my dad had a direct line to the principal, but also what rabbit rabbit meant.
In our family, it's a tradition. Something we say on the first of every month to wish each other good luck. The first person to say it wins.
Over time, it's come to mean even more.
"Rabbit rabbit" means I love you.
It reminds us that family matters. That traditions do too.
These days, the best thing about the first of every month is that I know I'll hear from Clay, Lela, and Celeste.
And in my head, I can still hear Dad's voice saying:
"Got ya again, sweetheart!"
Lastly, I want to share something about the day Dad was dying.
As we lay with him in his hospital bed—Lela stroking his face, me massaging his feet—it felt like my subconscious met my waking mind, and together they started writing a song, my voice just charged with carrying the words aloud. I sang it to him all day.
Lela hadn't heard me sing since we used to blast Dixie Chicks in her burgundy VW Fox in the mid-90s. I didn't ask permission, and we never spoke of it after. Her husband told me later that she'd been comforted by it. I was glad, because I was comforted by it, too.
It felt otherworldly, like God was pulling the words out of me, making them come together on their own—giving him exactly what I thought he needed to finally accept that it was time. Time to let go.
The song was inspired by Boothbay Harbor, a place my dad loved. It's where he spent his summers as a child and where he learned of his own father's passing.
As I sang, I imagined him going out to sea—calm, at peace, and finally free of everything heavy he'd carried through his life.
That song became my way of saying:
You can go now.
You've done your part.
You've given us all we need.
It was called Boothbay Lullaby.
To sea you go,
To sea you go,
Off you go to sea.
To see your mom and dad,
To see your family,
Off you go to sea.
Your mom is waiting,
Little Tom is playing,
And your dad is praying—
Praying for your homecoming.
Off you go to sea,
Off you go to sea,
To see your family.
To sea you go,
To sea you go,
Off you go to sea,
To see your family.
Your duties here are done,
You've given all we need,
And now you go to sea.
Your mom is at the door,
Your dad is standing by,
And little Tom is waving—
Waving you, "Welcome home."
To sea you go,
To sea you go,
Off you go to sea,
To see your family.
We are you,
You are us,
And off you go to sea—
To see all you've longed to see,
Off to sleep you go.
To sleep you go,
To sleep you go,
Off you go to sleep,
To see your family.
I sang until I finally stepped out for thirty minutes to get a snack at a convenience store down the street. I was in the aisle, picking up a box of Cheez-Its—Dad's favorite—when Celeste called to tell me he had died. Over the years, we had all said goodbye to Dad several times. He went in and out of hospice, and more than once we were told he'd pass within days. He defied their certainty more times than I can remember. In the end, it happened as it was meant to happen. Clay was there that day, holding his hand and giving him love, and Dad would not have left this earth without sharing that final moment with his only son. I told myself he didn't want his baby girl to see him die. I told myself Lela and Celeste were meant to be together with him when it happened. I told myself he only let go once all of us were near. He would not leave without tucking each of us in, and us tucking him in.
End of eulogy.
At the funeral, I also felt an otherworldly pull, and decided to sing the song aloud instead of reading it. To sing it with no music behind me, just my voice, the one he gave to me, felt like the only way it was meant to be shared that day. We were gathered in a small church at the graveyard in Cincinnati where my dad's family lays to rest. I could feel them all there. I could feel him there. I could feel God there, too. And with all of my immediate family in the room, I had never felt so safe.
My dad was cremated, and ever the royalist, his wish was to be spread across The Mall in London. There was no one happier than my dad when I moved to England to work, and fell in love with a Brit, who I'd eventually marry. While my dad wasn't at our wedding, Jonny did get to ask his permission for my hand in marriage. It was at a time when the dementia and Alzheimer's had taken hold of Dad, and his sense of reality drifted from day to day. When I called him a few days later from the top of Stratton Mountain on Black Bear Trail where Jonny proposed, he responded, "Oh, thank God. I've been up all night questioning if I made up that Jonny asked me to marry you, and when I hadn't heard any news, I thought it was official: I've lost my mind." He was more relieved to have his mind momentarily intact than reassured I'd said yes, because he knew the latter was never a question.
After Dad's funeral, my oldest sister, Celeste, handed me a portion of his ashes to take to England, since I was the one most likely to be there next. As we went through security, Milly asked, "Are you going to tell them that dead grandad is in that bag?"
"No, if they ask, we'll say it's some sand we wanted to bring home."
"But, Mom, there isn't an ocean in Cincinnati. They won't believe you."
"I'll say I'm an avid golfer and I took some from the Camargo Club."
"They won't believe you, because you, you don't even golf."
I told the kids to just follow my lead and not say anything. When we went through security, sure enough they picked up the bag of ashes and moved their hands through it to see if anything was hiding amongst the "sand." They must have seen the discomfort on my face, because they didn't ask any questions. As we zipped our luggage and headed toward the gate, Milly giggled and pulled my arm. "Mom, I hope grandad liked that massage from the security lady." I'm sure he did.
For nine months, my dad's ashes have lived happily in Jonny's whisky cabinet, a mid-century Scandinavian sideboard we bought in London via Sweden, and which has been a centerpiece in our homes in London, LA, Vermont, and now, Austin, Texas. Jonny has spent the last decade curating an impressive collection of liquor, which he houses in said sideboard, now along with my late father, and he's assured me Dad is spending his days amongst the finest Scotland has to offer. I sometimes smile to myself when I walk by the sideboard, because I can picture my dad saying, "How the heck did I end up living in Texas?"
Later this summer we're heading to the UK for two weeks to see my in-laws and meet my sister-in-law's new baby. My dad will be in tow. Although, I may keep a wee teaspoon of his ashes to remain living with Jonny's scotch collection, because I think he'd be happy to keep an eye on us and quietly participate in the whisky tastings Jonny puts on for his friends. At the end of the trip, just the four of us—Milly, Ernie, Jonny, and I—will be in London. I plan to book us a lunch at Rules, the oldest restaurant in London and my dad's favorite, then walk from Covent Garden down the Mall to sprinkle his ashes from Trafalgar Square to Buckingham Palace. How I will complete this mission without catching the curiosity or concern of passersby, I do not know. But for Dad, someone who enjoyed a healthy bit of risk-taking, I have no doubt I'll figure it out.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
I still hear you in my head every day, and with absolute clarity and emphasis on the first of every month. Whether it's whisperings from the sideboard, the family plot in Cincinnati, or soon the streets of London, I'll always hear you. You're deep in my heart.
Rabbit, rabbit. ❤️
