I visited my father’s grave today, one year after his passing. I’ve never been one to go to the cemetery to see lost loved ones. For me, it’s merely a final resting place, and there’s little of the person left there. If I wanted to have a conversation with my dad, I would have a better chance of getting a response out in the garden or working on something around the house.

I feel like my dad would appreciate that. He was a practical man for the most part, but he was also a dreamer. In many ways, I suppose that I am like him. I can walk around the yard in my own head while also getting some work done.

I’m sure I’ll visit again in the future, but this was something I needed to do today. In part, to be there with my sister. Also to see the headstone since it has been laid.

More importantly, I needed today to do the thing I’d been telling myself I’d do for a year: say goodbye in the only way that I know to say goodbye. By writing about it.

To Be a Man

Over the years, I’ve given a lot of thought to what it means to be a man. What does it mean to be a father? A grandfather? How do you know when you’ve truly reached manhood?

You can vote or go to war in my country at 18. You can legally purchase booze and smokes in my home state at 21. You can even drive at 16—that thought is a lot more frightening at 40.

I suppose that like most men you never really feel like you’re anything more than an 18-year-old kid fumbling through life. You just have different responsibilities. And no matter how well your parents prepared you for adulthood, it’s never truly enough. Most things, those are things you must figure out all on your own. And if you’re lucky, have a partner who walks that journey hand in hand with you.

That’s what I think I’ve figured out at this point. Life is a journey of lessons. You can learn from them and grow, becoming the person you are meant to be, or remain stuck in the past. But ask me again in another 40 years; I may have a different answer.

And regardless of how well your parents prepared you for life, there’s no preparation for a life without them.

My father, Jesse Edmond Tadlock, passed away on April 16, 2024. And just over a month later on May 22, 2024, I lost my maternal grandfather, Robert Lee Frazier (“Papa”).

These two men were the primary male role models throughout my life. So when I ask myself what it means to be a man, it’s tough to answer without their input. But I was fortunate to have 40 years of lessons from each of them. It’s a lot of years but somehow, it feels like it’s not enough—it’s never enough.

So if you ask me if I feel like a man now, I’d say I still feel like that 18-year-old kid who still needs Daddy and Papa around when I fall short. Yeah, I’m OK forging my own path and always have been, but for the past year, I’ve had to succeed or fail on my own without the safety net. The journey and the lessons have been mine alone.

Around the time of my father’s death, I first heard Dax’s “To Be a Man.” It was a song that resonated with me as a man, a son, and a grandson.

It puts into words what it’s like to be a man in modern times and—I suspect—throughout history. As a son and grandson, I wish I’d appreciated the men in my life more through my formative and teen years. But those days were gone so quickly, as I was always looking toward some distant future where I would be in full control of my destiny.

I certainly appreciated them more as I grew older. I just wished I could’ve slowed down when I was younger and listened more. But the downside of youth is that you don’t yet have the wisdom to do the things you should. And I guess I wouldn’t be who I am if I had slowed down.

So what did I learn about being a man from two of the best? Quite I bit. I won’t share everything, but the lesson that struck me the hardest was one of sacrifice. A man sacrifices so much of himself for those he loves.

He shows up to ball games when he just wants to relax after a day of work.

He moves the kids from apartment to apartment as they figure out this whole adulting thing because, you know, he’s the one with the truck.

He disciplines even though it hurts him more than he can show.

He compromises on his dreams for his family, providing what he must.

He drives the tractor over to dig up a burst pipe in your yard.

And so much more.

And Superman Bleeds

Most boys grow up seeing their father as Superman. He’s the strongest guy they’ve ever known (for what it’s worth, I never actually beat my dad at arm wrestling). He’s the guy who’s always there to save the day. He’s more capable than any other human—he’s Superman.

I was around 37 years old (assuming I’m getting my years right) when that boyhood worldview shattered. For the first time, I saw my father as anything less than superhuman. He looked broken, weak compared to all the years I’d known him. He’d just suffered a heart attack and was lying in a hospital bed, unable to control his movements completely. His always-strong arms were wobbly as he struggled to hold himself awake. I could see him fighting it every moment. I often wonder if part of that struggle was to avoid appearing less than superhuman in front of his family more so than the trauma he’d experienced.

In many ways, I’ve been writing this post since that day. It was the first time it dawned on me that I’d have to carve my own path one day without the man who had always been there.

When I saw him the next day, he was almost back to his old self and flirting with every nurse who walked into the room.

It took me a few years since that day to realize that I was wrong. Superman bleeds too. James Gunn’s recent trailer for the upcoming Superman trailer reminded me of that.

In the opening scene, we see Superman broken and bleeding, beaten down. The trailer showed the humanity of Superman and what he could be despite being knocked down.

What made my dad Superman was never his strength or the appearance of it. He kept going even when he could’ve easily given up. From his early days, until his final days, he faced life head-on, and that’s the man I remember.

Conversations

In his final months, I was able to go with my dad to a few of his chemo appointments. For the first time in my life, our father and son roles were reversed. It was my turn to be superhuman for his sake. I know he’d never entirely share his fears, but I had to be strong enough, to be by his side when he needed it.

I know some people may look back on such trips as the bad moments, wishing to forget them, but they were special to me. For us, it was more moments in our limited time here on earth, conversations that were about nothing and everything at the same time. Each trip was just another drive around town with my dad. The circumstances didn’t matter.

A song that came into my life at the time I most needed it was James Blunt’s “Monsters.” I realized that it was my time to chase the monsters away.

On his last day, I sat with him and told him it was OK if he needed to let go. That I’d keep going and figure out this whole life thing. That I’d make him proud. I told him about the promotion I’d just been offered at work the previous day. I chatted with him about my first blueberry that had ripened on that day.

I talked about some of the important things but mostly about the mundane. Those were what most of our conversations were about anyway, and if it was going to be my last day with my father, I figured we ought to treat it like any other day.

We’d already said all the things that truly needed to be said.

I suppose that’s what I miss the most. It’s not the big life lessons. It’s those moments in between. I still grab my phone to text my dad a photo of my latest culinary experiment. I still want to call for advice when I’m trying to fix something. Or just chat about things I can’t recall today.

If I were having a conversation with my dad today, I’d have plenty to share. I’d tell him everything about the woman I’ve been dating and how well she treats me. I’d tell him about the jalapeno-cheddar sourdough I made earlier this week. I’d mention the 40+ fruit trees I now have growing. I’d ask his advice on converting an old shed into a chicken coop.

Dad, if you’re reading, a lot has happened. We’ve got some catching up to do.