My dad died on November 18th after a long battle with multiple cardiac issues. Just last year he was healthy enough to be my crew for the Eastern States 100. The decline in his health resulted in a lot of time in and out of the hospital this year and a less demanding lifestyle that sidelined him from doing many of the things that he loved to do.
The last month has been challenging. My mom is adjusting to a new normal of him not being there. I’m adjusting to a new normal of my mom living on her own. The kids understand, but they’re a little too young to process it and their emotions manifest in irrational ways. We’re grieving through a holiday season that typically sees family gatherings and times of happiness.
I haven’t figured out how to put into words what losing a parent feels like. But what I know is that a piece of me died with him on November 18th, and it’s fundamentally changed the way that I view time as an asset.
I’m having a hard time processing the feelings of regret. That I fucked up this year. I saw the possibility of what was coming on the horizon. But I wanted to be optimistic, and pretending that he would always be there was a way to be optimistic. We should have done more. The days when he came over with my mom to watch the kids and I was working, I should have stopped and spent a little more time with him.
I should have visited him in the hospital the night before he had a long surgical procedure that ultimately ended his life. We should have taken one last video of everyone together with relative normalcy. I would trade anything to have that video right now. Instead, I have videos of him inarticulate and suffering through his last few days here.
I’m holding it together for everyone around me. But I’m angry with myself. I’m angry that I’ve invested years of my life into cultivating a lifestyle of being present that on many levels I’m proud of, in principle. But I failed on doing that with my dad this year. It’s a heavy weight to carry around.
Mostly I’m just sad. That he’s gone, forever. One of two people on this planet that has been an unconditional fixture in my life since the moment I was born, who has helped me through all of my highs and lows. Someone who has been there for me forever, is now gone forever.
Two of my favorite memories with him are the 2019 Summer Beast of Burden and the 2020 Winter Beast of Burden. Two grueling 27 hour, 100 mile journeys up and down the Erie Canal towpath in Lockport, NY. Far from enjoyable for either of us… but they were the best times. I don’t know that I can do another 100 mile race without him.
My dad’s service was a deeply therapeutic experience. I learned new things about who Dennis Slifer was.
So many of his friends and acquaintances knew of me simply as “the runner”. It provided a bit of comic relief on a really hard day, but it let me know that he had a lot of pride in the person that I’ve grown up to be.
One of my dad’s best friends Bobby said a few words at the service that have stuck with me. He said that my dad was “the organizer”. He was the driving force in his tribe. The question was never “what are we doing this weekend?” – it was “where are we fishing this weekend?” Growing up, my dad and his friends were always out fishing. I can remember many days of being woken up at 5am by him sneaking out of the house with the boat. They went on trips to Canada and many other locations to enjoy this hobby. When we were on vacation, my dad would have an immediate curiosity to see what kind of fishing could be done wherever we were. Bobby couldn’t begin to recall all of the places that they had ventured out to fish together over the course of decades of their lives.
Bobby brought some old pictures to the service, one of which was of my dad standing on his boat during a sunrise in Canada when he was around my age. By the sheer luck of how that photograph was taken, my dad turned out as a silhouette.
How many pictures of sunrises have I shared here? When I was still trying to figure out what the point of this website was, I wrote about how being outside early in the morning makes me feel.
What I came to know and appreciate that day is the sameness. That I’m also “the organizer.” The only question that I ask is “where are we running this weekend?” I’ve taken trips just to run, and built a map dedicated to the places that I’ve run. And my vacations have always involved morning runs wherever we are. My unwavering drive to get up and get out is the same as his was.
I am my dad. I’m 15 years into the same journey, but with running instead of fishing. I can only hope that at the end of my time here, someone feels compelled to stand up and tell the story of all of the good memories that are being made right now.
I gave a eulogy at his service that is published below so I don’t lose it. And in the event that someone who knew him sees this, I’m collecting memories of him in a photo album and would welcome contributions.
Good morning. My name is Kevin. I’m Dennis’s younger son. Although apparently most of you know me as “the runner”.
Thank you for being here today to remember my Dad. I’d like to share a few words about him.
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A member of the Spring-Ford class of 1966, Dad was described in his high school yearbook as “one of the greatest assets of our football team.” This statement refers to a school record of 16 career interceptions that he still holds today.
He had a gift. The situational awareness and placement and timing made him not only an asset to the football team, but it gave him an edge at another sport that he dedicated much of his adult life to: yes, I’m talking about fishing. If there would be a lifetime achievement for catching every fish in Lake Nockamixon, he would have at least one of them.
Dad’s love for this hobby created an abundance of friendships and memories, and defined the person that I knew him as. It also shaped our relationship, as it was an activity that he shared with me and my brother from a very young age.
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Dad’s other gift was serving:
He served his country in the military.
He served his community as an educator and as a member of this church.
He served in a variety of clubs and organizations over the years.
His greatest service to me was as a father, a father-in-law to my wife Christine, and a grandfather to my two daughters, Maya and Vera.
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Dad was also an enthusiastic golfer, and I was not. But a few years ago I realized what I was missing, and he and I played exactly one round of golf together, just the two of us. I shot somewhere in the 130s and blamed it on everything but my own skill, and he let me have the excuses.
Dad took me and my older daughter Maya out for two fishing trips on Lake Nockamixon. He made those trips all about her: letting her steer the boat, helping her to put worms on the hook, throw the line in, and reel in the little fish. There’s no doubt in my mind from the amount of joy those trips gave them both that they’re cut from the same cloth.
My favorite memories with Dad are when he supported me in my races. Running is to me what fishing was to him. I do very long races that require someone to tag along in a vehicle. It’s a thankless job, but Dad was all for it. And over the past five years, he was there for me when I finished the hardest races that I’ve ever attempted.
I’ll always remember the last one, which was just last summer. He was dropping me off at the start and finish area in the remote woods of Central Pennsylvania at 4 in the morning. There was no cell phone service for miles. So our plan was me saying to him “Meet me here in 24 to 30 hours from now.” People my age get lost doing these things, so we kept this one simple.
After we cleared that up, I asked him what he would be up to for the next 24 to 30 hours. “I brought my gear, I’m going to go fish in the creek for a while and then take a nap.” That was the quintessential Dad response. Which is exactly what he did, and he was there waiting for me 29 hours later so he could drive us home while I did the napping.
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I’d like to end with an expression that I’ve developed a greater appreciation for over the last two and a half weeks: “Success later in life is having a crowded table. It’s having a family who you have a good relationship with and who you get to see. But in order to have that crowded table, you’re going to need to plant seeds along the way.”
As I reflect on my Dad’s life, it’s clear that he planted a lot of seeds. He gave without expecting anything in return. Not just to me, but to everyone. He was a great husband, Dad, Pop Pop, teacher, and friend.
Dennis’s table is crowded today. There’s no greater testament to his legacy.
Rest in peace Dad.