I could talk about Dad for hours. He’s not really a person I could “sum up.” He just had so many really cool things about him, and really amazing gifts that I continue to treasure.

He had a unique and independent spiritual life. He never fully belonged to any particular church, but when my sister and I were growing up in the Catholic Church he was a wholehearted participant. He always sang the hymns with gusto. I would look up at him and he would be smiling and singing loudly. Just seeing the enthusiasm was contagious.

My father wanted to make sure my sister and I knew about worldly matters, and one year he got a roulette wheel and set out to teach us poker and gambling games. He had a big jar of pennies that we would split up and he would coach us through the choices we could make. No matter how good we got though, he always said, “Remember girls, the House always wins.” He didn’t want anyone robbing his daughters of their hard-earned pennies.

I was fortunate enough to earn my pennies for a few summers in my dad’s bicycle shop. We would often get in before all the other employees to open up Scott’s Cyclery. There was a stereo in the center of the shop up high so that no matter where you were you could hear the music. We would usually put Bob Dylan on early in the morning. Once the shop opened up, we usually didn’t change the CD. It would be on Bob Dylan loop all day until closing. Never bothered the customers, but some of the other employees got a little weary of Bob Dylan’s melodious voice and easy-to-understand lyrics, and eventually Glen convinced Dad to play a radio program with Bob Dylan themed music, but not the same 20 songs over and over again. By then Dad had memorized all the important songs anyway.

I worked the floors during those summers, selling bicycles and taking in repairs. It was a rare week that I did not hear, “You must be Scott’s daughter!” What I really loved about that comment was that it gave me someone to look up to, someone to be proud of, a legacy to be part of. And I always hoped that it meant more than just looks, that it also meant that I had some of my father’s enthusiasm for life, some of his warmth and kindness, some of his big heart — quick to forgive and compassionate.

Another gift my father gave me was meditation. We would stop in a parking lot and he would turn on one of Swami’s tapes and we would close our eyes and forget about yesterday and tomorrow and even today’s tasks. His flexibility in spirituality and matters of faith, and his probing curiosity towards all of it, empowered me to lead my own independent spiritual life as a Muslim. I know sometimes that decision scared him, made him wonder how people might treat me, but he also knew it was my own path, and he let me journey it and explore it, and he let me sit there with it and just breathe. It was perhaps the greatest gift he could have given me: letting go and trusting me to walk my path.

I know how hard these past ten years were for my father, to keep enthusiasm and find joy through treatments and medications. Yet so much support kept him going: friends, family, Mom, and grandkids. The smile on his face when he held each of them for the first time: Mina, Josepha, Zakaria, Adam, and Anna. And as they grew, he always made sure that they had great bicycles.

I was listening to Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man” recently and I was immediately transported to the bike shop. I was also aware of right now, just this moment and the little places in my heart where I can feel my father. And I think about those Memorial Day parades that he loved being part of, right here in town, and how he is a part of a different parade now: that divine parade of peace that marches on and on. That maybe we have said goodbye, but it’s only because he has places to go, and his own parade to attend.

Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to.
Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, in the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you.
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade, Into my own parade
Cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it.

Mary Johnson