For Don

My friend Jim's dad died this week.
Don was a quiet guy. I used to go to Jim's house all the time, but I can't say I can remember many conversations with his dad. The impression I have was that he was kind of shy, maybe didn't really know how to make small talk with one of his son's friends. But in his quiet way he was kind. He could make me feel at home.
He called me "Angie," which is not something a lot of people do. Jim doesn't even call me "Angie," so I'm not sure how he got into the habit. I tend to reserve that nickname to people who've known me a very long time, but with some people, it just sounds right when they say it. I can hear Don now: "How are you, Angie?" I guess because he had this hesitant manner otherwise with me, the use of the more private nickname was especially...right. As though just because he was shy didn't mean he liked people any less.
...It's strange. I started out thinking that I didn't really remember that much about Don, but all evening memories have been surfacing. I was thinking of something else a few moments ago when suddenly I thought of Jim's cousins calling Don "Uncle Duckie," in honor of his spot-on Donald Duck impression.
And earlier I was remembering wanting to watch one of my favorite movies with Jim, but he nixed Lawrence of Arabia as soon as I suggested it. It seems it was one of Don's favorite movies too, which meant it was on in the house so often, Jim developed an allergic reaction to even the thought of watching it again.
Don could be so surprising. Like at Jim's mom's funeral a few years ago, at the end, when people got up to share their memories...Don got up and gave the most beautiful, the most gentle, poignant and heartfelt testimony about his wife, at a time when it would be most painful to do such a thing, at a time I could hardly imagine I could have even formed a coherent sentence, were I in his shoes. He just quietly talked about his wife and how much he would miss her and all the fun they had together.
There's a picture Jim has of his parents where they are playfully trying to wring each others' necks. This is the picture Jim has framed, on display. The cutest couple.
I hadn't really seen Don much since Jim's mom's funeral, but there are still sweet things I remember. Like how Jim's boyfriend Greg crocheted him an American flag afghan (Don was a Marine). Or how I'd hear Jim talk to him on the phone and end the conversation with "I love you, Dad."
I think these things stood out for me because I adopt fathers where I can, having lost mine when I was 13. And for all the complexity of their relationship (I'm sure all father/son relationships are complicated, but Don and Jim had a few extra twists and turns in theirs), there was such love, and they could even use the word "love" with each other--it was a privilege to be a witness to that, as it's now a privilege to write about it.
One of the last times I saw Jim's dad was when he came to a show Jim's boyfriend Greg was in. (In, or directing, or both? I can't remember now. And maybe Jim was stage-managing it too.) I was sitting in one of the back rows and in walked this man I didn't recognize, partly because the lights had already gone down and partly because it had been years since I'd seen him. But he looked over at me, and then he came over to me and whispered, "How are you doing, Angie?"