A gentle heads-up: Today’s newsletter touches on sudden loss and the grief of losing a parent.
June 18, 2019 didn’t initially start off as the worst day of my life; that distinction came later. In fact, most of it was quite lovely. It was the Tuesday after Father’s Day and included lunch in Tribeca at Locanda Verde with a dear friend who was in town for work, followed by a lazy afternoon with Justin back in Brooklyn.
And then my phone rang.
It was my mom. Her tone immediately told me this was not a friendly check-in. Wait, what? My dad and stepmom had been in an accident? On the river… Jet skis. My brain couldn’t process the words fast enough. I couldn’t catch my breath. But I just talked to him on Sunday. Even thinking about it now, my throat closes up and tears stream down my face.
It’s been seven years, but not a day goes by that I don’t think about them. I often ask my dad for help or guidance… usually when I’m out in the garden or just about to drift off to sleep. As I tell friends who experience the loss of a parent, the grief never really goes away; you just get better at managing the waves of pain.
Still, no matter how well you cope, this week is always tough. Not only do the visceral memories flood back on the anniversary of their accident, but my social media feed becomes inundated with Father’s Day tributes. It feels like a cruel, recurring calendar invite I can’t decline.
But I also know my dad and Jennea would want us out enjoying life. So, instead of letting the grief consume me, I try to celebrate their memory with a special meal or an activity that reminds me of them.
All this to say, when my Uncle Gary (Jennea’s brother) called to let me know he was flying in for the U.S. Open at Shinnecock Hills and wanted to hit the tournament on June 18th, I knew it was going to be a special day. I just didn’t realize how special.
Sort of the inverse of that day seven years prior, it didn’t start out that way. A dense morning fog severely delayed the tournament, with only 14 players teeing off before play was suspended. I had arranged a boat across the Peconic Bay to avoid the infamous traffic, but 40 mph wind gusts forced our captain to regretfully cancel.
Shuttle bus it was.
By 10 a.m., the fog had lifted, the players were back on the course, and we were at the Calverton airfield. A large runway had been converted into a massive parking lot with a line of buses ready to ferry spectators to the course. Maybe it was the delayed start, or timing our arrival perfectly. Perhaps a massive blue and orange parade happening 80 miles away in Manhattan kept attendance light. Or, maybe, it was Dad & Jennea pulling some strings to make sure we had the best day.
And that we did.
We hit zero traffic on the ride over. The predicted rain never arrived. For lunch, we split a Pat LaFrieda sandwich stuffed with filet mignon (my dad’s favorite cut) and BBQ potato chips (a Dennis Sire go-to), washed down with Sun Cruiser vodka iced tea. (If you knew my dad, you know that iced tea spiked with sugar was pretty much the only thing he drank.) We took a million photos, went shopping in the merch tent and checked off every player we wanted to see without even really trying too hard.
My uncle, an avid golfer who can rattle off fun facts about pretty much everyone on tour, was like a kid on Christmas. We admired Rickie Fowler’s creamsicle golf shoes, watched “Cashmere Keith” Mitchell tee off from just a few yards away, hung out at the putting green, and scored two seats in the stands at hole 9 right before Rory McIlroy finished up his round.
But the best part of the day came as we were leaving the stands, fully satisfied by our magical day and ready to head home. The top of the bleachers opened up to a beautiful view of the 10th hole, where a trio of past U.S. Open champions were about to tee off. We paused for one last look. First went Wyndham Clark (the current leader), then Dustin Johnson, and finally: Gary Woodland, who won the tournament back in 2019.
The Gary standing to my immediate left perked up. “Oh my God,” my uncle said. “The last time I saw your dad, we watched Gary Woodland win the U.S. Open.”
I immediately got chills. “The last time I talked to my dad was also that day.”
We watched in stunned silence as Woodland teed off and walked down the fairway, snapped one last photo in front of the clubhouse, and made our way toward the exit confident it was Dad’s way of popping in to say hello.
On the shuttle ride back, we shared stories and memories. We pictured my dad peppering Uncle Gary with a million golf questions, leading with his signature, “Now, I’m not trying to be smart, but….” We laughed about how Jennea had been ready to take up golf herself that day in 2019 after riding around in the cart with the ladies and watching some YouTube videos. And we marveled at just how wonderful a day it had been.
Traffic was so light that we actually beat Justin back to Calverton. We ended the day at one of our favorite restaurants, toasting with margaritas: Dad & Jennea’s cocktail of choice on the rare occasions they drank. We capped off the evening with a picture-perfect sunset at Kenney Beach, and I silently looked to the sky and told my dad, thank you.
June 18, 2019, started beautifully before turning into the worst day of my life. Seven years later, the anniversary started with frustrating delays and cancellations, only to unfold into one of the most beautiful days in recent memory.
It was the perfect reminder that grief and joy aren’t mutually exclusive. They often sit side by side; sometimes on the same day, sometimes on the very same tee box.
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