February 21, 2024. A date that will forever be marked as the day my dad died, just 6 days after his 85th birthday, from pancreatic cancer that had spread to his kidneys and liver. The man with a handshake you could never forget, the family provider who ruled his home with authority, someone who outwardly seemed unconcerned with others’ opinions of him, and who was competitive at his core, had been given 6 months to live - but went out on his own terms and timeline just 37 days after the diagnosis. And he did so telling his same corny jokes and asking about his grandkids, two things that invoked joy.
Before my three brothers and I (and our families) could fully wrap our heads around his diagnosis, he was gone. But on some level, maybe it was his way of protecting us, or himself from what else lied ahead. See, my dad had been battling the early stages of Alzheimer’s and it was progressing. In the beginning, he could hide it or my stepmom could cover for him but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. He would repeat the same stories and become more easily confused, but also more reflective. The same man who had rarely shown us emotion was now giving us a glimpse to his inner thoughts. He would often say “How did I get so lucky to have such a great life?” And closer to the end, seemingly longing for our approval, he would express, “I hope my boys are proud of me.”
That struck a chord with me because I was always striving for my dad’s love, acceptance and validation. It hadn’t occurred to me that he may have been feeling the same. Growing up, affection from my dad toward the four of us boys, his sons, was minimal and restrained. His focus, like many fathers during the time we grew up in the 1970s and 1980s, was work and providing financially for his family. Jim Rogers was a tough act to follow. A straight-A student, Eagle Scout, and three-sport standout athlete in high school. A college football recruit who played in the 1961 Rose Bowl with the University of Minnesota (and wore that Rose Bowl ring proudly), an Army vet and a successful business executive, working for prestigious companies such as Xenon, Champion Sporting Goods, Crestliner Boats, and as Vice President of Sales and Marketing for Riddell (manufacturer of football helmets).
Jim Rogers was also a dynamic storyteller, captivating his audience with his vivid and memorable accounts of his life experiences. These have become some of my fondest and most cherished moments with my dad. Of course, playing in the Rose Bowl stands out but there is also the story of the game between his team, the Gophers, and the Michigan Wolverines. Gophers won, 10-0. But at least one newspaper’s headline read: Rogers Beats Michigan 10-0. See, my dad was a fullback, the place kicker and an outside linebacker. He scored the team’s only touchdown, the extra point AND kicked a field goal, accounting for all 10 points. My dad didn’t boast about his college football career, he matter-of-factly shared the stories, leaving the rest of us in awe.
One story that he LOVED to tell was from his first job out of college, marketing for 3M. He was part of a team that organized a public relations gimmick where they drove a golf cart from the Northeast across the country to the Bing Crosby National Pro-Am (now the AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-Am). My dad was in charge of driving a car behind the golf cart and tasked with setting up press coverage at strategic locations along the route. Shortly after arriving in California, prior to the tournament, he had the opportunity to meet Bob Hope. While he felt honored for the experience, he must have made an impression on Mr. Hope, as well. A few years later, while in Las Vegas on business, my dad was waiting for an elevator. The doors opened. None other than Bob Hope was standing there. As dad stepped in, Bob grinned, stuck out his hand and said, “Jim Rogers, great to see you!” Without skipping a beat, dad replied, “And you are??” Imagine the thrill of making the comedic genius himself laugh at one of your jokes!
Throughout my dad’s esteemed career, he acquired many stories like these. Each shed some light on a man we really didn’t know all that well. Maybe that is why, when my brothers and I started having families of our own and we saw a completely different side of my dad - an oversized kid, laughing and playing with our children, present - I was left feeling envious, resentful, “salty.” While I loved this new person I was seeing, I found myself wishing I grew up experiencing this side of him. It helped me realize the father that I wanted to be, and chose to be, to my own three sons. When I divorced in 2009, that became even more apparent. As did my desire to connect with my dad.
Out of the complex and emotional time of the divorce came the opportunity for dad and I to realize a dream we shared - an African safari. Well, truth is, since childhood, I wanted to go and my dad would say, “Let me know when you want to go and I’ll be there.” So, I pitched the idea and, low and behold, he said, “Let’s do it!” Throughout the planning, my excitement was combined with trepidation. In my 44 years, I had never spent any significant amount of time alone with my dad, our relationship was distant and devoid of deep discussions. “This should be interesting,” I thought. But not only did we survive two weeks together, our relationship transformed. I was no longer the child intimidated by his father and I finally received the one-on-one time I hadn’t even realized I had been craving for so long. It was a start. A stepping stone.
From that trip forward, I was able to catch peeks into who Jim Rogers was. And in turn, he was softening a bit. Although, his attempts at hugs in lieu of his usual handshake were awkward, at best, and left us satisfied with returning to the handshake. In recent years, he began to say “I love you” to each of us, one by one. It was awkward and startling at first. But as it settled in, I realized my dad was reflecting. He always loved us and just didn’t have ability to show it openly. He left breadcrumbs, a trail that I can see more clearly now. He was just doing the best he could with what he had to work with. And the handshake, which in his final days was as strong as ever, was his way of hugging. In the end, the grip was the same, it just meant more to me because I understood it now.
So, to answer that question of if we are proud of him, yes, on many levels, we are. I choose to remember the good times and the happy memories with my dad. After all, who of us is perfect? God speed dad, I look forward to seeing you again one day.