W.B. Yeats writes, “The world is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” Getting to be there by my Dad’s side as he took his last breaths on this Earth, I’m confident and take great comfort in the knowledge that he found the feeling, lived the love, and breathed and believed with purpose and meaning a life full of “magical things.” In her poem, “In Blackwater Woods,” Mary Oliver writes, “To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”
So, we gather together to practice this awful but holy and sacred act of letting go of our Father, Husband, Brother, Son, Cousin, and Friend. Ron Allen was many things to many people, and seeing everyone celebrating his life together is a testament to his impact on our lives and the world.
My dad was a public servant. He stood up when his name was called and served his country. He worked at the Boys Club, Probation and Parole, and Corrections. He stood in the spaces serving the underserved and underrepresented. My dad was a fighter. During the last time Todd, Jason, and I were together with him in the hospital, he reminded us of this himself.
My dad was a teacher. He taught me how to pour a beer, make a highball, and fill out a racing form. He taught me how to tie a tie and shave. He taught me how to play poker, Spades, and Hearts. He taught me about civil rights, social justice, right from wrong, and having a point of view on things that matter, not being afraid to share it, and speaking truth to power. He taught me to fight against bad people and for good causes. He taught me to distrust power and to stand up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves.
My Dad taught me the value of self-reliance and freedom. He signed us up for judo so we would always know how to defend ourselves. He dropped me off at Camp Tall Trees for a week every summer and then let me live there all summer away from home and work while I was in high school. My Dad taught me not to ask anyone for permission to follow my dreams. He taught me the holiness of the mundane—shining shoes, cleaning out and washing a car, scrubbing a toilet, making a bed (although Mamaw showed me how to do hospital corners to be fair). My Dad taught me to love the road and to thirst for adventure.
When I was young, my Dad took me with him to one of his trainings he was doing at a state prison. It should have been terrifying, but it wasn’t, because I was with my Dad, and he was a badass. The way he could hold you was like a mountain, and he had a voice that could move one.
I can hear his voice calling me “Bubblebutt.” I can smell his Vicks Vapor Rub chest and Salem Ultra Lite cigarette and Halls cough drop breath, and see him snorting up his inhalers. My Dad saved me from drowning at EKU when we lived in Richmond. I can still feel his arms wrapped around me underwater. I remember it all and can feel it coursing through me.
I’m grateful for our parents’ struggle and sacrifice to make a better life for their kids. This is our birthright. And I know for certain every day of our lives, my brothers and I have walked this talk and lived this lesson we learned from our Mom and Dad as parents and providers. What a gift.
My Dad was a Grandpa. His 15 grandkids are my Dad’s legacy. They are evidence of his life’s greatest triumph and of the present his life was to this world. His family and his light will continue to shine for future generations. What a gift.
Thank you, Dad, for the fight, for standing up for what’s right, for the standard, and helping me see there was one, for the love of bourbon and mint chocolate chip ice cream, fig newtons, cantaloupe, and pretzels. Sawyer’s Dad, because you are my Dad. I’ve channeled you many times in IEP meetings. I’m a fighter, too.
How lucky. I’ve gotten to drink beers and bourbons and smoke cigarettes in the backyard under the stars with my Dad. I got to field grounders and pop-flys from him while our dog darted between us. I got to bet on horses with him at Churchill Downs. I got to see the Outsiders and Naked Gun and Terminator 2 at the drive-in with him, Return of the Jedi and JFK in the theater, and a thousand other movies we rented and watched together over the years. I watched my Dad get up, put on a suit, and go to work daily to support his family. And I got to be there with him in his last moments and to hold his hand and to tell him that I love him. What a gift.
His most significant lesson for me was that my dad taught me how to be a dad myself. Ask my kiddos, I still have a lot to learn, but it’s an attraction-based universe. “If you ask, it is given” and “what you seek is seeking you,” so I take great solace. My faith is affirmed and strengthened that God’s grace bestowed upon my Dad at Creation is redeemed, transformed, and returned to its original form: ashes to ashes, dust to dust, energy, vibration, love. I can experience him now in his most healed state. What a gift.
It’s our time now to serve. It’s our time now to fight. It’s our time now to teach. It’s our time now to live the love we want to be and see in this world. And I’ll be looking for you, Dad, when I cross a horizon on the road, and I’ll see you in hummingbirds and in flowers, in films and in food, and in watching Meet the Press and 60 Minutes, and I’ll feel you holding me when I have my kids, and we’ll always be together in this family of things. Amen.
By Ryan Allen & Meghan Nelson
