Rob Raimond and the Art of Living 6

Love

Looking back on who you were, all I see, through my tears, is that big smile. In every photo, you look happy and content. That smile is who you were and shows your warmth, your generosity, your love.
In recent years, we often went grocery shopping together. For Easter, Christmas, birthdays, or just for the fun of it. Sometimes we’d walk through the store, and I’d suddenly see someone looking my way, with a most loving smile. It made me a little shy, until I realized it was meant for you! It turned out to be a neighbor, or your physical therapist, or just someone you’d chat with now and then. In their gaze, I saw you reflected: always friendly, always honest, unapologetically you, warm and cordial. Something I also remember from the farewell evenings at the school you worked at as a teacher. Both parents and children, with tears in their eyes, clasped your hands and thanked you as if you were their long lost best friend. Dad, everyone loved you, and we were lucky to have you as our father!

Yes!

Because whenever we walked in, unannounced or not, we were welcomed with an enthusiastic “Heyyy!”
You were YES. ‘Dad, will you, can you, do you have…?’  ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Always and without any but’s. You were there for us and did everything with equal joy. We built fences, painted walls and carports. And when you could no longer do the handywork yourself, you baked huge stacks of pancakes for us. Your heart and the garage door were always open to us.

Mission Accomplished

You always said you raised yourself. That’s true. Your father left when you were very young, and let’s not even talk about your mother. This difficult start shaped your life’s mission: You decided to become the father you had so desperately wanted yourself. You built us the dollhouse you never got and fixed all our flat tires and broken bike lights without complaint. You transformed the bathroom into a darkroom and introduced me, as a toddler, to the magic of photography under that red light. You drove us everywhere, and above all: you were always there!
I remember a time when we were home alone with you. You’d cook macaroni into one big lump, and we’d chop pieces off it. You fried bacon into one-millimeter cubes and sprinkled cinnamon over the cauliflower, but it tasted like… happiness! Not to mention all the ‘secret ingredients’ you added!

The Art of Living

They say your father is your hero when you’re a child, only to eventually become just a father. For me, it’s the other way around. You used to be just the kind father I’d sit on the shoulders of and who tucked me in at night. But little by little, you became my hero. To me, you were an artist. My dad could do anything.

“Leave it to me, I’ll whip something up!” was a catchphrase of yours. And then we knew everything would be okay. I can’t remember a single time you failed at something. With your humor, natural charm, creativity, and enormous verbal talent, you could sell a refrigerator to a polar bear. And if something still went wrong or didn’t work out, you’d just tape it back together with a green wire or some duct tape!
And that… that ability to turn even setbacks into something beautiful. You elevated it to an art of living.

True Master

A few years ago, you broke your hip after falling in the bathroom. I can still picture you sitting at the table. Somehow, you’d made it down the stairs, which was physically impossible. And there you were: realizing the full impact of what had happened and having a really tough time. But as a true master of putting things into perspective, you quickly flipped that switch and went with the flow as much as you could. And because we, as your children, had learned from the master himself how to turn misfortune into opportunity, we decided to build a new, safe bathroom and turned this accident into a blessing. Not only did it become the most beautiful bathroom ever, but it was also a wonderful excuse for so many weekends together! I am still grateful for this wonderful time.
And even recently, when walking became more difficult every day and beach walks were sadly no longer an option, we made the next little bridge our goal. We celebrated the day with blooming crocuses, a reflection in the water, or a ray of sunshine on our faces.
You didn’t have a bucket list; you mastered the art of being content with what is. The blooming magnolia, a cat’s wink. A singing blackbird or a beautiful drawing by your grandchild.

The Art of Simplicity

Lately, people asked me if there was anything left to be said, but no matter how hard I tries, I really couldn’t think of anything. Not because we had said everything, but because a glance, a wink, a smile, or a gesture was enough. We read each other, just as we read each other’s words. And that didn’t necessarily have to be said out loud. We knew it was right anyway.

Humor

We’ll never forget how you used to read a very humorous book, with your feet propped up against the orange cabinet. Every few lines, you’d burst out laughing and shake with laughter so hard that the books and CDs in the cabinet would rattle. Although we were afraid you’d get stuck in there, we couldn’t help but laugh along with you. And that’s how I’ll always remember you…. Of how you always tried to make everyone laugh and how you always succeeded. When a way too serious surgeon asked you if you could move over a bit in your bed, you shouted, witty as ever: “What do you mean, do you want to come lie down next to me?!” You made this world so much funnier!
Even in the last few weeks, when you were lying in a bed and we were sitting next to you chatting, you’d regularly interrupt your snoring with a witty comment or a razor-sharp joke. More clearly than ever, I saw that humor and sharp wit are truly at your core. And when I once told you that I was going to miss you and your jokes so much, you began to sing softly, with that familiar smile on your face….

Don’t know where
Don’t know when
But I know we’ll meet again
Some sunny day

I’ll hold you to that, Dad, and thank you for being the best husband, the sweetest father, the strongest grandpa, and the greatest friend to us!