Obituary Template for a Father

What belongs in your father's obituary

Fathers of a certain kind do not leave behind many quotable sentences. They leave behind evidence. The gutters that never leaked. The forty years at the plant or the firm or the wheel of a truck. The fact that he came to every game and said almost nothing and you would not have traded his silence for anyone else's cheering. An obituary for this kind of man should be built from evidence. Say what he did, plainly, and trust the reader to feel what it meant.

Name his work and name it with respect, whatever it was. For many fathers, work was not separate from love. It was the language love spoke. Thirty-one years of early shifts is a love letter if you read it correctly, and the obituary is the place to read it correctly in public, once, where he can no longer wave it off.

Then write down what he taught without saying. How to shake hands. How to lose. That you show up on moving day. These lessons rarely came with speeches, so do not invent speeches for him now. Restraint was his register, and the obituary can honor him in it. One of the most powerful sentences you can write about a quiet father is the plain true one. He never said it much. He never had to.

If he softened late, with the grandchildren or after retirement or in his last illness, include that turn. Children often meet a gentler man at the end, and naming him is a gift to everyone who only knew the sterner one.

A shape you can fill in

Obituaries for fathers tend to run on a spine of work and family, with the texture carried by a few concrete acts. Here is an order that fits most lives. Fill in each line and skip what does not apply.

Line by line

• His full name, any nickname he actually answered to, his age, and the date and place of his death
• Where and when he was born, and to whom
• Military service, if any, stated plainly with branch and years
• How he met and married his wife, in a sentence or two
• His work, what he did, for how long, and what he was known for on the job
• His children, named, and one or two concrete acts that showed how he loved them
• What he taught without saying, and what he did with his hands or his weekends
• Grandchildren, and the softer man they got to meet
• Who survives him and who went before him
• Service details, and where to send flowers or donations

A full example, Walter

Walter James Okafor, 79, of Grand Rapids, Michigan, died on January 18 at home, in his chair, with the Lions game recorded and waiting. His family takes some comfort in the fact that he did not have to watch them lose again.

Walt was born in 1946 in Enugu, Nigeria, came to Michigan at nineteen with one suitcase, and spent the next six decades making sure nobody around him went without. He worked thirty-eight years as a machinist at Steelcase, where he was known for two things, tolerances nobody else could hold and a lunch he would split with anyone who forgot theirs.

He married Agnes Eze in 1971 after a courtship conducted mostly by letter, and he kept every one of hers. They raised four children in a house where the rule was simple. You can say anything at this table, but you will be home to say it.

Walt was not a man of speeches. He was a man of jumper cables at 6 a.m., of tuition paid without being asked, of standing in the doorway on the night before a wedding saying only, well, then. His children learned everything that matters by watching him do it.

He is survived by Agnes, his wife of 54 years, his children Chidi, Grace, Peter, and Ruth, and eleven grandchildren who finally taught him to hug first. A service will be held January 24 at 1 p.m. at First Presbyterian Church. Check your tire pressure on the way. He would have.

A full example, Ray

Raymond Dale Whitfield, known to everyone as Ray, died on September 3 in Lubbock, Texas, three weeks shy of 71. He had been sick for a while and told almost no one, which was the most Ray thing he ever did.

Ray was born in Post, Texas, in 1954, the son of a cotton farmer and a schoolteacher, and split the difference between them. He could fix anything and he read every night of his life. He served four years in the Navy as a diesel mechanic, then drove a rig for Yellow Freight for twenty-nine years, a million-mile safe driver with a paperback western in the cab.

He married Donna Pruitt in 1979. He proposed at a Dairy Queen because, he said, he wanted her to know exactly what she was getting. They raised two sons and one long parade of dogs, every one of them named Bandit.

Ray did not say I love you often. He said your oil is low. He said call me when you get there. He said sit down, I will look at it. His sons understood every word.

He was preceded in death by his parents and his brother Carl. He is survived by Donna, his sons Travis and Cody, five grandchildren, and Bandit the sixth. Graveside services will be held September 8 at 10 a.m. at Terrace Cemetery in Post. In place of flowers, call somebody when you get there.