Until we Meet Again—Dad's Eulogy

The day after finding out my Dad had passed, my best friend checked in on me, "How are you holding up?" My answer was simple, "I'm not." I told him, "I am blocked. I can't write." A few minutes later, I scrolled through my music library and found my muse—the words and music of David Gilmour and Rodger Waters. As the music of Shine on You Crazy Diamond began, the tears and words magically flowed like a fountain.

Today, we celebrate and remember the man, the myth, the legend—my Dad, Bill Garrett. My Dad was an enigma. Quirky even. He marched to the beat of his own drum, living life on his own terms—even until the very end. I've met many stubborn individuals in my life, but I can unequivocally say he was the most headstrong, stubborn person I ever knew. It was a blessing and a curse all in one. We often laughed about nature vs nurture and our shared traits. He was proud to claim he generously shared that headstrong trait with me and his grandchildren, Brady and Jayde-Rhiannon. He was quick-witted, and his laughter was infectious. His smile was beautiful like the sun lighting up the room. He had many layers and sometimes a short fuse, but underneath the exterior layer of his tough-as-nails attitude, he was a softie. He was loyal to those who were loyal to him. He had parts piling up to finish rebuilding his Harley. Even though he knew he would probably never see it finished, he held out hope. He was a great storyteller, so in honor of him, I would like to share with you a few of my favorite stories and memories of him.

My first memory of my Dad was of him playing peek-a-boo with me on the other side of the door while my mom held me. Unfortunately, it would be fifteen years before we made more memories. However, the day I turned eighteen, he set out to change that. The first thing we did together was drive to Harrisburg so I could meet his favorite Aunt Flossie. For an eighteen-year-old with only one memory and an old photo that she clung to and kept hidden, it was a surreal moment.

That day, I was elated and anxious. I wondered what we would talk about. What would I have in common with a man who only held credence in a daughter's visions? Would I live up to his expectations? Would he love me? When he embraced me, I realized my fears were unfounded—the puzzle was complete, and I was home. 

What always amazed me was the ease of our conversation. That first day, we quickly discovered we shared a common fondness for many things in life, but our love for music was unparalleled. My mom is a classically trained pianist. As a child, I fell asleep every night listening to her play the piano, but it didn't matter. Dad's taste in music won out.

Dad's face lit up as he beamed with pride when I told him I loved Led Zepplin, Stevie Nicks, Pink Floyd, Rod Stewart, Aerosmith, and the Stones. He regaled me with a story I would hear countless times throughout the years. In his matter-of-fact, storyteller voice, "You know you saw Zepplin?" "What? No, Dad, I think I would remember that." "Sure you did. In 1970, your mom and I saw Zepplin. We sat on the end of a stage in a high school auditorium. You were in her belly."

A week later, he called to tell me, "I'm taking you to Philly to see your first concert." He used his connections, known as his friend Eric, to get us second-row tickets. Eric would come through many times throughout the years. Dad would say, "It's all about who you know." After that first show, I instantly adopted his mantra, "If you're not in the first few rows, you might as well stay home and listen to the radio." 

Of course, the Rod Stewart show turned into one of our crazy adventures and a treasured memory. It rained, no poured, on the way there and the way home. Making driving with Dad interesting and me grateful the other drivers couldn't hear his comments. If you knew Dad in the eighties, you can use your imagination. 

When Rod tried to pull me onto the stage, a woman side-checked me, and that is the short version of the story of how I ALMOST danced on stage with Rod Stewart. While I was disappointed, Dad was furious. I never understood his anger—until I had my own children and took Brady to his first concert. A few years later and many concerts in between, he would take me to my first Stevie Nicks show. I told him that night, one day, he would have a granddaughter named Rhiannon.

The first time he met Brady, he told me, "Brady is the closest I will ever get to having a son." When it was time for Brady to graduate high school, he decided it would be a good idea to take Brady on a road trip. Of course, their destination was Bonnaroo, a three-day music festival in the middle of Tennessee. Over the years, I've only heard tidbits from either of them about their adventure and have concluded, knowing my father, that's probably for the best.

Although he wasn't there to haze my first boyfriend or wait up for me to get home, we had our share of father/daughter lessons and milestones. He taught me how to shoot pool. The proper way to throw a punch, but never the first one. He "attempted" to teach me how to drive. You can use your imagination on that one. He taught me the correct way to sit on the back of a Harley. Then proceeded to take me to Hideaway Leather in Dundalk to buy me my first leather jacket. Insisting I always wear it and a helmet while riding—even in the middle of July when it was 90°. He shared his love of the water and being on it. The first time we went out on his boat, a storm popped up. I was immediately sent below deck to ride out the storm as he safely navigated us back to calmer waters. Looking back on so many memories, I realized it was a father's love—he was just trying to keep me safe.

Crabbing with him was another adventure—in the sense that it only happened once. Apparently, he believed I was meant to pick and eat crabs, not catch them. And did we eat them. He created his own crab seasoning recipe, promising one day he'd give it to me. If you never had Bill Garrett's steamed crabs, you missed out. 

My Dad could talk to you about everything and nothing. He had a way of weaving stories, drawing you in, and making you want to hear more, which is why our phone calls typically had a three-hour minimum. His phone calls always began with, "What's shakin'?" Or, "Well, how's it goin'?" Recently, the conversation ended only because it was nearing dusk, and he hadn't fed his wildlife conservatory in his backyard. Yet, another passion he shared with me and his family—his love for animals. He had squirrels, deer, bunnies, foxes, a bear or two, and recently, he suspected a mountain lion. 

Near the end, he voiced several times, I am not afraid of dying. I've had a good life. I know I'm going to the great gig in the sky, and I will be with your Grandmom, Aunt Donna, and Uncle Rick.

Dad, we are all a little crazier, but better for knowing you. You may not have always been present, but you still raised me.

If I had one wish, I'd wish you were here—with us and them. I love you, Dad, and I will always be your little girl. Until we meet again, Shine on you crazy diamond.