My father, Jacky Roberts Ettinger, died when I was 29, in July of 1983. I was pregnant with my son Nicholas. Jack and Nicholas and my son Sam never went out on the boat skiing, never watched a movie together, never discussed politics and women.

And yet Jack is, and always has been, there with us.

My sons both bear a middle name with a J – in honor of Jack and my mother Jean’s obsession with naming their offspring Jaki, Janet, John, Jason.

Jack taught me to add, subtract, multiple & divide before I could read.

Given that my education was as an English major & I earn my living as an accountant, that is fierce.

When I married, Jack took my arm at the end of the aisle & said, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

I should have listened.

Five years later, when I needed to leave my marriage, I sat in my parent’s house at their kitchen table & my mother told Jack I needed help, he asked why.

My mother answered: He hit her.

And that was that. I moved out, stayed with my parents for a while, searched for apartments with my sister Janet, found one, moved in & started over.

Jack made that new beginning possible, just as he & my mother made my arrival into this world possible.

When I found myself pregnant, unmarried at 29, I wondered how I would tell my father.

I told my youngest brother Jason first, wondering how I would tell my mother & Jack.

Tell them. Jason said. It will be okay.

I did not tell them. I took a trip with my mother to Dallas to spend time with her sisters & somewhere on Highway 45, I told her I was pregnant & that the father was married & I had no idea if he would participate in this child’s life.

I don’t know what my mother said to my father, since I was too chicken shit to talk to him myself.

I only know that Jack & my mother took me to lunch & told me that they were there for me, that my baby was welcome & that we would all be fine.

I would keep working for Jack’s company & keep my place in Montrose & when the baby came, Jean would come & help.

And one afternoon in July, Jack & Jean went to Half-Price Books in West U, drove by my place on Harold Street, & finding me absent, went home to read.

Sitting in his recliner, no doubt puffing on a pipe, Jack went into cardiac arrest.

My brother Jason & his friend Leslie, both lifeguards, arrived. Leslie gave Jack CPR – the paramedics who arrived later declared her a wonder. She brought him back.

I was cooking raspberry chicken, waiting for an old friend to arrive. He arrived as Jason called me.

The paramedics lost Jack somewhere between Meadows Place & the hospital.

When I got to the hospital, the waiting room was full of neighbors, Jason, Leslie, & others who were there for their own tragedies.

I went with my mother when the doctor called us in to tell us that Jack was dead.

I watched as she threw herself across his body & begged him not to leave her.
When they took her away, I asked for a moment
.
I looked at him, this man, son, friend, husband, father.

Afraid, I touched him, so cold. I talked to him. I know he could hear.

Jack never knew the joy of his grandchildren with Jean: Nicholas or Sam or Felicia or Emily or Alex or Sarah.

Something tells me that he watches them & is pleased.

I miss you, Daddy.