My dad was funny. Will I still be, now that he’s gone?

My dad and I shared so much together. Growing up, my mom went back to work after she had my sisters (the twins), and my dad stayed home to look after us. I helped dad “take care” of the twins by building pillow forts to corral them in and dumping Toastie Oaties (not Cheerios) on the floor and watching them graze like cattle. My dad was an amazing parent who taught me to be loving and forgiving.

He was a large man standing 6-feet, 3-inches tall. If he was angry, it was a little frightening. But he was a gentle soul and was a girl-dad before it was a thing. He would do anything for his girls, and this included mom. You NEVER said anything mean to mom or you’d feel his wrath.

Credit: Chris West

Credit: Chris West

My dad was incredibly cool. He used to take me and my sisters to Cactus John’s bar in Huber Heights during the day. It was fine during the day because it wasn’t rowdy. My sisters and I would sit at the bar, eat pretzel sticks and drink Shirley Temples while dad played darts and pool.

He was a master of any game that you could drink while doing. Darts, pool, golf and bowling. My parents met while bowling at Stardust Lanes in Grove City, Ohio, where in 1972, he bowled a perfect 300 game. I have laid claim to the magnificent trophy clock that used to don our mantle above the fireplace.

Most importantly, my dad was funny. He was always looking for a laugh, and he is most likely one of the reasons I became a comedian. He taught me to never make a joke at someone’s expense. I once made fun of his weight in front of a lady at the bank. In the car on the way home, my dad said that his feelings were hurt and that I shouldn’t harm people in that way. I cried and apologized. He said, “maybe I am a little pudgy.” I laughed.

I wrote in a past column about the crazy hats he would wear to my open mics at Wiley’s Comedy Club, which included long dreadlocks. He did this to put me at ease when I saw him sitting in the audience. He knew that my anxiety level was always through the roof when performing, so he wanted to help.

Even in his last days he was making jokes. He joked about the nurses looking at his butt. He asked me to count his money in his underwear drawer to make sure mom hadn’t taken any. When we moved his recliner into the garage to make way for his hospital bed, pills, peanuts and pennies fell onto the floor. We all died laughing.

Credit: Chris West

Credit: Chris West

The man that made me who I am is gone. The man that made me funny and gave me so much laughter will never make me laugh again. I won’t ever hear his deep, back-of-the-throat chuckle while I am on stage or in the living room watching something silly.

So, will I still be funny now that my dad is gone? Will I laugh again?

The answer to that is a resounding, “YES.” Dad’s influence and the memories I have of him will forever bring a smile to my face and probably tears to my eyes. I know he would not want me to give up on myself or give up on making others laugh, just as he loved to do.

Dad was even funny when he died. He died on my 15th wedding anniversary while my husband was visiting. That was either his way of telling me my marriage was iffy or it was his way of giving me just one more set-up for one more joke that I can build off of until I see him again.

Laugh Riot Girl round-up

Laugh Riot Girl is a column by comedian and writer Jessica Graue that explores the local comedy scene and issues surrounding it. Reach her by email at jessica.graue@coxinc.com.

Credit: Chris West

Credit: Chris West