My father died Monday, June 29, 2026. I am beginning to write this exactly 23 hours later. I want my thoughts to be fresh but not too fresh. It’s not as if I hadn’t thought of what I would write for months now. While the suddenness of this was a surprise, the eventuality was not. His destiny and likely timeline became clearer some time ago.

Perhaps it was that awareness that made our last few visits that much more special. The second to last time I saw him, the look he gave me as I was leaving their house, while he sat at the dining room table, still in the same spot where I had taken him for a few dollars in euchre, was new. That’s tough to say; it’s rare for anything to be new in a 58-year relationship. But this was. As I tried to describe to my wife, it was a combination of pride and satisfaction to know that he, nor I, had left anything back. We were an open book to each other. We knew we had to be; time was not indefinite.

Wolfgang Paul Carl Schaffer was his given name, but to me he was always “Dad.” But that always was not always consistent. Life, being as life is, was hills and valleys. And in the course of travelling those highs and lows, I learned that he was more than “Dad.” He was a kind, intelligent, loving man; one who loved simplicity and a good card game, a gentle soul with faults that he did not shy away from or make excuses for.

It was the faults that defined the earliest memories of Dad. My father and mother divorced when I was four years old. I don’t care how you spin it and who did what; divorce always sucks for all involved. No one goes into a marriage expecting failure. I know that well; I’ve said “I do” three times (and no more).

My mother raised me and my brothers, and we saw our father and his wife every two weeks. I still have the postcards memorized, an obvious requirement by some judge somewhere. It’d arrive the week before the weekend: “Sherry and I will arrive at 10 AM Saturday (fill in date) to pick up the boys and return them by 5 PM the following day. Paul.” Those weekends were filled with fun stuff like camping, bowling, and movies.

Yet in the early days I did not want to go. Divorce is the most difficult for children, I think. I needed time to process when I didn’t have the skills to do so. It was new to me. Everything was new to me. I had separation anxiety and needed my mother, and that was all. I would learn later that she needed me and my brothers just as much to survive.

Eventually I processed enough to enjoy those weekends with my father, his wife Sherry, and my brothers. It grew to be normal for me. And such continued until two major events; the recession of the early 80s and the dawn of my teen years. The recession ended up being the catalyst for an early retirement and refocus for Dad and Sherry, which involved them moving to cheaper North Carolina (from northern New Jersey), and my mother and I (both brothers were college men now) from the New York City suburbs to Binghamton, NY. Those years also marked my expulsions from three different high schools, but the last one let me back in to finish my academic work and graduate.

I did a lot of growing up between high school and college, an intentional year off between them to do just that. It was during that period that I came to two conclusions. First, the highs and lows in my past would inform but not define my future. Second, I saw the humanity in my father because I let myself see, and I gave up blaming him for my lows. I mourned not having a father at home, then I buried it, then I moved on.

I did a lot of growing up in college as well, even while enjoying the lifestyle. I met and married my college sweetheart. I joined the Air Force Reserve. I received orders to deploy overseas for war. Dad and Sherry were on an extended driving vacation, and I didn’t think they’d return until after deployment date, so I let his brother (who lived near him in North Carolina) know what was going on. They returned from their trip and immediately set back out on the road after learning of this, driving straight from North Carolina to Buffalo overnight to see me before I deployed, if even for an hour or two, to offer support, encouragement, and love.

That’s the type of person my father was.

Later, I, newly divorced because “life” (remember, highs and lows), moved to Knoxville Tennessee to begin a new life after college. This put me in close proximity to Dad and Sherry, two hours away across the hills (the Smoky Mountains). My father may not have been a full-time father in my childhood, but I had come to know him as a friend. Later I would know him as a man.

I don’t know when it started, but for decades my father and I played euchre whenever we saw each other. The stakes never changed, despite inflation; a quarter a point. If I were to be honest, he easily won much more than I did, including our last game a month ago. He had a knack for luck, and enjoyed parlaying that luck at casinos, including the one local to him in Cherokee, NC. He never played to make a living; to him I truly believe the thrill was just coming out ahead at the end of the day.

In 2017 when I launched my business, they gave me a congratulations card and gift, wishing me luck and success. That card has remained displayed in my office ever since. I think my father saw some of his influence in my business actions, and in a way lived vicariously through them. When I was twelve or so, he had explained supply and demand to me at a sophisticated enough level that he bragged to his coworkers the next day how I understood it. Over the years he would ask me how the business was going, including the last time I saw him. Often those conversations would lead to questions and advice, or just sessions bouncing ideas. With the exception of my wife, he invested the most time and interest in that endeavor. I owe its success partially to him.

We had many conversations over the years, hours long discussions at the dining room table on just about any topic. Once I recall, later in his life, was conversation about what happens when we die. We would return to that topic sparingly, but it was enough to know that I believe I will see my father in my Father’s house.

One conversation focused on the past. I had long ago forgiven my father for any transgressions I may have perceived against me. That was actually one of three substantial moments of forgiveness in my life; the other two involving a priest and my ex-wife. In all cases I saw and lived the value of not wanting to know details of the past or the desire to get even to make up for being hurt. In all instances, I let go, and let God. Those three served as significant milestones in my faith journey and helped build me into the man I am today.

It was because of that I said he didn’t owe me any explanation when he offered to tell me about events of when I was four. Yet he insisted. Out of respect for him as my father and my friend, I listened. I understood. I empathized. When he was done, I realized I knew him as a man. No, it was more than that. I was my father, and he was me.

In our decades long relationship, one that I could have put aside because of how it was in the early years, I had the privilege of getting to know an extraordinary man, a gentle soul, a mensch to use a word he once used to describe me. I believe he saw me not only as a son and a friend, but as a man also. There was a comradery that went beyond the blood relationship.

Seeing him get ill was difficult for me. As a youth I saw him as the macho Marlboro Man. Ironically, it would be cigarettes that would accelerate his decline in health. Each of the last times I saw him, I mentally prepared myself to understand this may in fact be the LAST time. That brought me to be more present than usual. It also brought us to where we didn’t part with anything left unsaid. For that I am grateful.

When the call came from Sherry today (as I write), I knew before she said it. My first question to her was how she was doing. She was everything to my father, his angel. He wanted to do more, but while the spirit was willing, the body failed him. I have always tried to honor my parents as best as I could. Honoring him now means helping her where he no longer can.

I love him and I will miss him greatly. I have yet to shed a tear, as I am in the beginning stages of processing, but I know it will come. I joked to Sherry two days ago that she needed to tell Dad that he’s not going to get out of a euchre rematch that easily. I guess I’ll just have to wait a bit longer for that. Keep the cards ready, Dad. Until then, I miss you.

Photo from 2021 during one of our casino adventures.