The thunderous crashing

Spent the morning hanging pictures of my father while my brother shored up the steps on the back porch, before we went to pick up the food for today's Celebration of Life for my father.
Let me back it up a bit: I woke up around 8am to the sound of crashing thunder. Call me weird, but I think it was my dad. It was his day today and he probably wanted me to get out of bed. When I lived here (I'm currently in South Surrey) he used to turn on the intercom and loudly announce that he was cooking breakfast so me and Jay would get out of bed. He would then proceed to (seemingly) take every goddamn pot and pan out, making as much noise as possible, while yawning loudly, singing, and making cappuccinos (just in case we had slept through the initial onslaught).
Anyways. Several trays of food later people started arriving. So many people came that my step-grandfather had to direct them as to where to park their cars. I'm not sure how many people I thought might come out, but we're thinking maybe 90 showed up. Everyone was so good. Somehow the food was laid out, people were fed and watered, everything was cleaned up and then everyone disappeared. Everyone had kind words about my father. It was so wonderful to see people that I hadn't seen for years show up to pay their respects and throw in a story or two.
A few things happened which bear mentioning. My aunt (my dad's sister) came. I believe I wrote on my alter-blog that, because she lives near me, I would definitely make the effort to see her, but I haven't. That's lame. She sat next to me and, though it was her little brother that had passed away, told me that she was worried about how I and my mom and Jay were doing. She told me that she had spoken to my father once and he told her that she was the kindest person that he knew. And she is. She was just so bereft, so heartfelt in her grief, so kind in her compassion and though we are somewhat estranged from that side of the family it just re-instituted that desire to re-connect with her and her son - my cousin - who all live a stone's throw from me and would be happy to see me for coffee any day of the week. I will make that happen. My aunt is an incredibly kind person and she is one of the last connections that I have to my father.
The other connection is my uncle, who looks a lot like my dad which makes things pretty difficult. He regaled me and Jay and some other family members with stories that I had never heard. My dad taking him out on his motorcycle and hitting 100 miles an hour on the road out to UBC. How they created "UFOs" out of laundry bags, balsa wood, and candles. How their dog fell down into the towers of the Burrard Street bridge (only to be rescued, of course, and to make the paper yet once again). Inadvertently almost burning down a section of Kits beach. It was hard to see my uncle because he looks like my dad and because they were estranged and because it is so evident in the way that my uncle talks about my dad that he loved him very much and that some of the best times of his life were with my dad.
The photos were everywhere. Photos of my dad on his travels. Posing with the huge cod that he caught that had actually been hunting him. Newspaper clippings of the rescue from the raft when he was a little kid. Write-ups about his time as a lifeguard. Articles about us moving the house to Lasqueti.
My dad lived, man. It is surreal beyond belief to be sitting here writing this. I thought I had more time. I guess that's what everyone says. His sister said, "It's a little like having a dad that was a celebrity" and I said "Yeah, it kind of is".
I remember walking into elementary school with a motorcycle helmet tucked under my arm.
I remember my parents taking me and Jay out of school for a month to go to Mexico.
I remember my dad doing jacknifes off our diving board.
Listening to the mariachi bands in Yelapa. Buying mile-high pies from Dot's Diner on Vancouver Island. Playing pool with him in Puerto Vallarta. Body surfing in Hawaii. Kayaking to Jedidiah Island. Drywalling and kicking carpet at Lasqueti. Him kicking my ass at chess. How he had a cappuccino ready for me when I came downstairs while up at Lasqueti because he must have heard me roll out of bed in the morning. Cleaning out the carburetor of my 1980 Corolla with a toothbrush with him. When he made us tea with lots of milk and sugar which we'd drink with a straw when we were little. The checkout girl that was flirting with him at Thrifty Foods. His penchant for rye bread. His love of the Sally Ann.
Trying to wrap it up. What's my point here?
My point is that I'm just so goddamn mad that my dad wasn't wearing a helmet when he jumped on his motorcycle that day and that I don't remember what my last words were to him, but that I'm grateful I spent a week with him in June and that I'm sorry I never understood him the way he deserved to be understood, but I understand him now. And I understand how easy it is to accept and take for granted certain things every day but how, in a flash those things can be gone.
I understand that no words can adequately convey the experience that was my last 31 years with him.