Days 71-76: Father Time

LATHAM, OH—

June 3-8, 2024

Days 71-76:

If you’ve had the truly great fortune of having a strong and healthy relationship with your father, there comes a moment in time when your heart breaks over the genuine realization that he won’t be here forever. If you’re even more fortunate, this moment will take place not only while he’s still alive, but also in his presence.

The familiar, linear grip with which time girdles reality as you know it will burst inexplicably, and you will see the man before you born. Breathing the biggest breaths you’ve ever witnessed. New.

This moment pierced the veil as my dad lay next to me in the grass beside my tent in Latham, Ohio, discreetly wiping tears from his eyes at the conclusion of a weekend visit from Plymouth, Michigan. It was the first time we’d been together since he left me at the coast of the Atlantic 9 weeks prior, and I could tell he didn’t want to say goodbye.

I came to right then and there that, at 30 and 63, we likely have more time together behind us than ahead, that this present goodbye was one of some number of trial runs before I’d be faced with an inevitable, unfathomable void. “Now” was no longer some banal later right around the corner, but the source of a resonant echo rounding an infinite pivotal shift.

Suddenly, there he was: my father, George Jeffrey Foor, son of Joan and Thomas Foor, born October 27, 1961, laying in the grass with glassy eyes and a smirk that said, ‘gosh darn it, ya’ got me.’

For the very first time, I saw that beautiful man.

A few days before arriving in Ohio, he texted me an image of his 1980 senior composite.

“My old high school pic,” he added. “I hope you have a wonderful day. Love, Dad”

How time can change all versions of ourselves in a few 24 hours; that image, too, has transformed since my vision first painted it. The difference between “in sight” and “insight” is the bridging of a space. The shape of my aging eyes could no longer cast his young likeness in the form of a faded relic. The vintage camera that captured my father’s features kept a secret from me only his tears could tell: he was once as I am, I will one day be as he is, and right now, we are intertwined on a trail traversed not by a literal drop of the foot, but through what we intentionally give our attention and efforts to.

Or, as Dad would say, “right attitude, right effort.”

What does this have to do with a run-of-the-mill millennial walking across America for a paralyzed friend?

Probably everything.

My dad has always supported my dreams, no matter how ambitious or seemingly insane, including this one. Growing up with little and in a single-parent household in Detroit, he knows all too well the feeling of being viewed as less than, as lacking the conventional societal appendages deemed necessary for acceptance, as not good enough. Before earning three college degrees, his school counselors frequently told him as a kid he wasn’t college material, often undermining his confidence by casting doubt on his abilities due to crippling dyslexia. My grandmother, however, tore many a counselor a new asshole, having a different message for her son—one that he passed down to me: you are good enough, you can dream as big as you want, but you must give it 110% effort. Disabilities be damned, the only failure is not trying. It’s no mystery that Greg and he get along.

My father, this George Foor fellow, has been integral to the effort driving every heel-to-toe of this walk. Because of him, I understand that this journey isn't just about the singular moment of reaching the Pacific Ocean, an external destination. It's also about waking up each morning, saying “yes,” lacing up your muddy shoes, and walking toward an internal destination: the decision to matter in your own life, in a way that is honest enough to empower others to do the same.

“Nothing is guaranteed," he said as I sat on my food container, savoring the pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream he bought me earlier while I was treating my clothes with permethrin to keep Ohioan ticks at bay. “But, if I could do it all over again, I would’ve gone and never looked back, like you’re doing.”

“Don’t be sad,” I said, my own voice sounding distant and hollow to my ears.

“I’m not sad,” he replied. “I’m proud of you.”

Words, in their earnest simplicity, deserving of a hug.

Following the familiar, self-esteem resurrecting embrace I’ve known my whole life, the man made his way up the hill to his car. About 25 paces out, he stopped, turned back with a look that captured all the unspoken things between father and son, and blew me a kiss.

The little boy in me, still holding his ice cream, blew one back.

“I love you,” he said, crack in his voice.

“I love you, too, Dad.”

Then, that little boy got into the car with Dad and drove with him back to Plymouth, Michigan. He who remained returned to his seat atop his food container, taking in a few more spoonfuls of ice cream until it was all gone.

He pulled out his phone and stared at his father’s old composite picture, trying to remember every minute detail about that last hug and the man who gave it, because he’d never know when it’d be the final time. And he began to cry.

‘Don’t be sad,’ said the boy in the photo, as a tear beaded across the blue light.

‘I’m not sad,’ the man replied. ‘I’m so fucking proud to be your son, George.’