41 years.
Feb. 21, 1977
I still can't believe it.
The email from my sister, the keeper of the special dates in our family, on Wednesday did not come as a surprise.
But her notation of just how long it has been since our father died did.
It was more than four decades ago when a woman popped her head into a class at the University of Colorado at Boulder and asked the professor, "Is there a Philip Heron in this class?"
You just know that means bad news.
I was told that I needed to call my brother in Littleton, a suburb south of Denver.
That's when I learned that dad had suffered a heart attack and was not in good shape.
We needed to fly home.
First, I had to get to the airport. I rushed back to my apartment. Luckily, I ran into a friend along the way who agreed to drive me to the airport.
For the most part, my older brother and I sat in stone silence for the three-hour flight.
"Well, if he survives this, he will really have survived something," my brother said. It was the only sentence I remember either one of us speaking.
We were met at the airport by a family member, and one look at his face told me the news was not good.
We drove out to the hospital in Jennersville, where the family had gathered.
It was pretty much a formality. I think they were just waiting for us to get there.
The truth is, I think dad was gone before he hit the floor.
He had stopped in at the store in Oxford before heading to his job as a police officer at Lincoln University. Mom said he mentioned that he did not feel well.
She said she had just made a fresh pot of coffee and that she would get him a cup.
She turned to get the coffee and then heard the thud of dad hitting the floor.
Gone far too young.
My father earned the nickname "The Quiet Man." Yes, he was a man of few words. It is a trait he passed along to his son.
Yes, I write and edit words for a living. But in private, I often don't have much to say. Just ask my wife. She's spent the last 35 years pulling conversation out of me with pliers.
Dad never met my wife.
41 years.
Amazing the things that happen over the course of time, none of which dad ever witnessed.
A Super Bowl championship, for example.
Dad always talked about that 1960 team that beat the Vince Lombardi and the Green Bay Packers. His eyes sparkled at the very thought.
Dad died in 1977, 17 years after 'Concrete Charlie' Chuck Bednarik sat on Jim Taylor as time expired in the NFL championship game. I had to wait another 41 years to see the Eagles win another championship.
And I'd be lying if I did not admit that the first thing I thought of after the Eagles won was my father.
I know how much he would have enjoyed this run by a team nobody expected to win. Of course, he would have enjoyed it in a far different manner than we did today. He likely would have been listening on the radio. He always enjoyed his sports that way, as opposed to the TV his kids were always glued to.
"I can see the game better on the radio," he would always say.
41 years.
This one was for you, Quiet Man.
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