I was 12 when my father, Darrell Dean May, passed away at the age of 46. May 7, 2015 marks 43 years since he has been gone. I can hear his voice a little saying, "Holy Mackerel" and see his smile. I can see him trying to whistle after eating crackers at a Daddy-Daughter party. I remember loving the pogo stick he gave me and to this day I can still bounce on a pogo stick. I recall the red stoplight he accidentally ran through near the Black Canyon Highway in Arizona. I can see the silver metallic Christmas tree in his home with various colors of lights shining on it as they rotated round and round. I recall driving from Arizona to California to visit my sister Linda and my dad having to turn around just before the Oakland Bay Bridge since we were heading the wrong way to get to Vallejo. I remember stocking shelves with Sunshine Biscuit cookies on them as we traveled from Snowflake to Saint Johns for his work and visiting my grandparents after. I can see him painting the deck outside his cabin in Prescott and the monkey swing he put in trees for me to swing on. Whether I was 6 or 12 our conversations were about school, friends, boys I had crushes on, and activities I liked to do as he picked me up for our visits since my parents were divorced. The thing I missed most after his passing is not being able to know him and talk with him as an adult. Still, somehow I know he is aware of the family he left behind at such a very young age and misses us as we miss him.
Darrell Dean May
as a young boy
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