A Ski Lesson, a Dad Lesson, and a Couple of Dad Jokes

Skiing with my daughter, remembering my dad, and the strange mix of joy and grief that sometimes show up together.

Yesterday was a bittersweet day for me. On the one hand, I spent the day skiing in the Austrian Alps where Pineapple (my 4 year old daughter) graduated from her ski class, able to go down gentle hills entirely on her own.

On the other hand, it was the 12 year anniversary of the death of my dad, someone who would have absolutely been blown away by hearing about Pineapple’s successes. To be fair, he passed before she was born and before I met Pretzel (my wife), so he would also be blown away by hearing about them in general.

In many ways, I was reminded of all of the feelings I wrote about 6 years ago on his anniversary when I shared “What They Don’t Tell You About Losing a Loved One.”

“The hardest part isn’t when times are tough. The hardest part is when times are good. The highest of the highs, the celebrations, the moments you’re proudest of. And you just wish that that person could see you shine. Not for yourself, not for your own ego, but so that they knew what they helped you become.”

Today would have definitely been a day where I talked to my dad about the life he helped me create.

My dad was a fan of skiing and would have been proud to know that in addition to Pineapple doing well, I’ve also been getting better.

This was my 5th skiing trip ever and I managed to do multiple medium difficulty hills, and even skied from the top of the peak to the bottom, over 5 miles, falling only once (and knocking my friend over in the proces…).

Throughout it all, I thought of my dad. Particularly at the peak of the mountain, it reminded me of my trip to the Grand Canyon, as I shared in the book The United States of Laughter.

As I scanned the panorama, I felt like I was in The Lion King, like I was standing on Pride Rock where Simba was lifted out to the world. The clouds above reminded me of how *spoiler alert* after Mufasa died, he came to Simba in a vision in the sky.

I remembered my own father, who passed away a couple of years before, and the serenity of the moment brought with it a wave of emotion.

My dad never got to see this view. In his 59 years, he never saw the beauty of the Grand Canyon or the redwoods of California or anything outside of North America for that matter.

Guilt built in my body. Why did I deserve to see this view when so many others couldn’t, or wouldn’t, their entire life? What made me worthy of the opportunity to travel to all 50 states and beyond when others struggled just to get by, day to day, as my dad had struggled for the past few years before his death?

The guilt turned into sadness, a mourning for my father I hadn’t felt since I first learned of his passing.

I took in the view once again, one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen. The sadness turned to hope. Maybe, in a way, my dad was seeing the Grand Canyon now, through his son’s eyes. Not in a weird, “I’m a ghost, boooooo” way, or even a spirit-in-heaven way. But my memory of him was there with me in that moment, as if he were by my side, waiting to make the perfect dad joke.

“Do you see this beautiful canyon, Dad?”

“’I see.’ said the blind man, who picked up the hammer and saw.”

My dad never made it to this side of the world, let alone skied down it. But his memory was with me this past week, through the literal and figurative ups and downs of skiing and my emotions.

I have to think he’d be proud. Not just of me, or his granddaughter, but where our small little Tarvin family has gone.

And knowing him, he would probably ask me how I felt after a successful week of skiing. I’d say something like, “Great, but now I’m exhausted.” He’d reply, “Hi exhausted, I’m dad.”

-Andrew