Remembering Hanno Fuchs (Dec. 23, 1928 - April 18, 2000)

As I back my way cautiously down the fold-out ladder from
the attic, my son Jackson stands below, imploring me to let him up so that he
can “help me.” Instead of getting into
the first argument of the day, I employ my acting training, convincing him that
what I’ve got in my hands is too difficult for me to handle. Without his help. He reaches up, and I hand the album down to
him.

“What’s this, Daddy?” my six-year-old asks, and I take the
opportunity to walk him through the photos with which I’ve populated this
book. The first one is of my father as a
boy (pictured here) – probably not too much younger than Jackson is now. There are shots of him in the army, others
with me and my brothers and sister, one with our friends the Kasais on
vacation, and still more traveling in Europe.

“Today’s my father’s birthday,” I tell my son. He gets a puzzled look on his face, as he
tries to comprehend how someone could both be dead and have a birthday, as well.

But then he asks me a pretty sophisticated question (and
with the best grammar I’ve ever heard him use): “How old would your dad have been if he were alive?”

After making a big deal about his sentence structure, and
use of the subjunctive conditional, I tell him his grandfather would have
turned 83 today, which, to him, sounds, of course like the age of Methuselah or
Rip Van Winkle. We leaf through the
pages together, and Jackson is more tickled at seeing my various “looks” – long
hair, pony tail, full beards, goatees and such.

Finally, I place the childhood portrait of my dad next to
Jackson’s and ask him, “Do you think you and grandfather look alike?” He grins his sparkling Hannoesque grin, nods and says, “He’s looking one way, and I’m
looking the other.”

I have no real way of knowing what place my father holds, or
will hold, in the hearts of my two sons. This is the nature of loss; it is highly subjective. The departed lives on, so to speak, differently
in each of his survivors. For me, I see
my father’s face in the mirror more and more with each swiftly passing
year. For my wife, some of the photos
bring her back to a time and place where she can recall Hanno’s kind, paternal
embrace.

For my father’s siblings – an older brother and two younger
sisters – he’s someone else altogether. I’d imagine if he and his brother were anything like me and mine, there was
a period of rivalry and intense competition, followed by a peaceful and satisfying
acceptance of one another as friends. His sisters have both shared with me a deep admiration, described by
them as a form of hero worship that changed little over the course of their
time with him.

I don’t presume to know much more than this. My siblings and I have discussed his impact
on our lives from time to time. For my
own part, I can say that he validated me and my responses to the world around
me at every opportunity. He wasn’t
perfect; I know that now. But my father
was the person I need him to be – kind, understanding and forgiving.

As I’ve stated before, I believe the greatest gift my
parents gave me was the capacity to love. Yes, there are other things that are important in life, but none more
than this.

Happy 83^rd, Dad. I miss you.