Two balloons are released into the air on a previous Christmas in honor of Jerry Davich's father, Joe, who died on Christmas Eve 1987, and his brother, Joe. Jr., who died in 2009.
Jerry Davich
Dear Dad, it’s been 35 years since you died on that Christmas Eve morning.
As I've written to you before, sometimes it seems like 35 minutes since we last talked. Other times, it’s like 35 centuries. I thought I'd write again this year to check in.
Every time I write this letter, I put it off until the last minute. Maybe it’s because I’m a procrastinator. Or maybe it’s because I’m a son without a father for so many years. It conjures up memories that I neatly tucked away in my mind. These letters are like opening an urn and shaking the ashes.
Sometimes I forget I had a dad. And then something sparks memories of you, like the saxophone music playing in the background as I write these words. On a recent Christmas, I tried relearning my alto sax so I could play “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I simply don’t have your talent.
Jerry Davich's father, Joe, on the top, in an undated family photo.
As usual, I'm glancing at an old photo of you while writing this letter. You're staring back at me with the same unblinking love and intensity I remember as a kid. You’re also wearing a collared shirt with cuffed short sleeves, just as I’m wearing now. Funny, huh?
I tend to think of you during moments when my life is as quiet as a cemetery. Especially as Christmas approaches. I remember waking up on Christmas Day 1987 and realizing that I no longer had a dad. I guess I’m still realizing this.
For 35 years during the holidays, it's been Santa Claus, Father Time and you. Not quite the Holy Trinity, but you’re in good company. I wonder what you’d be like in your 80s. Would your anger have simmered down? Would your hurts have been healed?
Now that I’m 60, I can’t believe you died at 50. It seems so … young. All your grandkids still call you Papa, though they barely remember you. I feel that I barely knew you. I have so many questions I should have asked you when you were alive.
Jerry Davich's father, Joe, on the left, with his wife, Nancy, and Jerry as a young boy in an undated family photo.
Were you scared or thrilled when you first became a father? How many jobs did you have? Did you consider yourself an overachieving hustler in life? And what were your deepest regrets and proudest joys? I’ll never know. Maybe you didn’t know either.
Last Christmas, I stumbled onto an old dumbbell you once used. It’s more than 50 years old. For the first time, I used our dumbbells together for a workout. I could hear your voice in my ear: “You need to feel your biceps burn.” It’s amazing how you continue to motivate me so long after your death. You should be proud.
Last Christmas, Jerry Davich stumbled onto an old dumbbell weight that his father once used. It’s more than 50 years old. "For the first time, I used our dumbbells together for a workout. I could hear your voice in my ear, 'You need to feel your biceps burn'," Jerry Davich writes.
Hey guess what, I got married this year. Yep, at my age. Yep, to Karen, who I introduced you to more than a decade ago. And yep, we displayed a photo of you so you could join us that day. There also was a photo of my brother, Joe. I’m pretty sure you both would have enjoyed yourselves and maybe would've had too much to drink.
Carly, the granddaughter you never met, also got married this year. They allowed me to officiate the ceremony. You were there too, in a way. Her husband, Brent, is a great guy, and they have the cutest little boy, Elliot. You should see him play with my grandson, Landon, who’s now 4. Oh yeah, I’m now a grandfather.
Mom loves watching your great-grandkids play together, although she doesn’t have the energy she used to. They call her Nana, just as Jill’s daughter, Emma, has done since her first words. I love being a grandfather more than I thought I would.
Jerry Davich with his 4-year-old grandson, Landon, on Thanksgiving this year.
Landon is extraordinary, just like his mother in most every way. He calls me Pops. I call him Pretty Boy. If you remember, you used to call me “sonny boy.” Landon sends me the cutest audio messages. Pass along your cellphone number. And your whereabouts.
I haven’t visited your gravesite in quite a while. Sorry about that. Still, I find comfort that you’re buried next to Grandma Davich and Uncle Bobby. If they’re with you, tell them I miss them. Same with Granny Steen, Grandpa Berlien and my brother, Joe Jr., who joined you in 2009. All of you swirl in my head like sugarplum dreams.
On a related note, Uncle Louie died this year. I wonder how you felt about him. Your sister is struggling with health issues in the wake of his death. She has missed you every minute since you left us. Every. Minute. You were the glue keeping our extended family together. It’s been a puzzle with missing pieces for 35 years.
Does time exist to you? It does to me. I’m continually on deadline for something. By the way, I’m back at The Times, writing newspaper columns that “prick the soul,” a priest recently told me. I’m not sure if this was a compliment or a criticism.
Jerry Davich's mother, Nancy, enjoys a moment with Davich's wife, Karen, at a family wedding in 2022.
Another question: Did you believe in the human soul? If so, where is your soul now, in an otherworldly realm or only in my heart at this moment? I’ll bet other people have similar feelings about their lost loved ones around Christmastime.
If I recall, your biggest concern was that you’d be forgotten after your death. Obviously, you haven’t been. Fond memories have a way of outlasting lingering regrets, huh?
Oh well, I'm rambling again, as I do every time we chat. It's been great talking to you, even if I'm talking to myself. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Love, Jerry
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