Sunshine and Eagles: A Tribute to My Dad

My earliest memory of my dad is at our first house in Houston. Both Mom and Dad sang songs to us—songs I later sang to my child and foster kids. One of Dad’s favorites was You Are My Sunshine. When he’d come home from work, he’d say, “Come on, sunshine,” and take me outside to the flowers along the fence. We’d look at the blooms—orange or yellow lilies, though I only knew them as “Sunshines.” I thought he wanted me to look at the “Sunshines” growing outside. I believed everything he said, even his bedtime stories about hunting with Davy Crockett. Imagine my kindergarten teacher’s face when I told her that! My mom was mortified, but I was so proud.

Recently, my family and my cousins’ family lost our patriarchs—my dad, Bob Pearcy, and their dad, Bill Pearcy. Identical twin brothers, they loved razzing each other, always joking, “He’s the ugly one!” Sadly, Alzheimer’s took both their lives, as well as their little sister, Aunt Shorty, a few years ago. It’s a cruel disease, and we don’t know where it came from in the family. Uncle Bill showed signs before Dad and endured every stage, but his loving family cared for him until the end. Dad got to be by his side in his last days, and while Dad would be confused at the situation yet somehow understand,  I could see the pain on his face knowing what was coming.

When Uncle Bill passed, we took Dad to the visitation and funeral. It was a sweet service.  But heartbreaking to see Dad cycle between confusion and realization that his brother was gone. Once back at his apartment, he struggled to process it. I wished he could forget, but I think deep down he knew he’d lost part of himself.

The day after the funeral, Dad fell. It didn’t seem bad at first, but he was moved to skilled nursing for observation. Somewhere in there, maybe he had a small stroke—his body weakened, and he just seemed to let go. He wasn’t my funny, wise-cracking dad anymore. He slept a lot and hardly ate. It felt like he knew he was leaving us. One month to the day after Uncle Bill’s passing, we lost Dad. It was peaceful, and we were all there, telling him it was okay to go. We promised to take care of Mom and asked him to save us a place up there.

I’m grateful he was spared the worst parts of the disease. He always knew who we were. The service was simple and beautiful. It honored the influence he had, especially on his softball girls. His motto, “You can either walk like a prairie chicken or soar like an eagle,” still lives on in many of them.

Now we’re figuring out how to move forward. Walking into Mom’s apartment is hard—Dad’s chair is still there, the one he’d eat and sleep in. I’d give anything to catch him eating peanut butter with his fingers or surrounded by cheese wrappers. He even snacked on dry cake mix! It made us laugh, even as Alzheimer’s took him from us. My dad was awesome—a helper to anyone in need, with a CPA’s sense of humor that for some reason actually got funnier as the disease progressed.  But now we’re left with just memories and all the lessons he taught us.  I hope to pass on the attitude of “walk like a chicken or soar like an eagle” to my own son.  But for me, I’ll always be the brown eyed little girl looking up at the first man she ever loved, who also called her his Sunshine.