“Before you begin,” he would say, “frame the piece in your mind, picture its details.  Then, mark the lines carefully.  They will guide your hands.”

“Hold the brush like this, turning the tip slightly upward,” he would instruct as he held my hand with the brush in it, guiding its motion.  “Bring the stroke down firmly but carefully, make each part flow.”  Each letter had its own personality.  Each had to be perfect, yet joined into the whole.  The spacing had to be varied to give the word balance.  No matter what the sign said, or where it went, it was a reflection of the painter.  Slowly, I learned the art he had perfected, for among his peers he was considered a master.

My father was a lover of music.  The sounds of Benny Goodman, Glen Miller, and the other masters of swing would course through our house or car and my father’s pleasure at hearing them was almost palpable.  So even now, when the sound of the big bands or swing comes across the radio, a feeling of sadness arises within me without warning.

A father is always a father, even when he is too old to do what a father has done all his life, and even when he lives only in your memories. Perhaps his death has made his existence even more precious to everyone whose life he once touched

A father is always a father, even when he is too old to do what a father has done all his life, and even when he lives only in your memories.  Perhaps his death has made his existence even more precious to everyone whose life he once touched.  I think of that now as I gather the brushes and paints and the ruler; these objects now becoming a cherished reminder of my love for him, even though my father is now gone.

Today is a special day…my daughter has asked me to help her with the lettering of her school project.  She has asked me to teach her to paint a sign.

“Draw the lines straight,” I say as my eyes begin to moisten.  “They will be your guides.”

“Hold the brush like this,” I intone, my voice crackling slightly as I take her hand to guide her strokes.  I show her how to make the top of the ‘s’ smaller than the bottom, how to space the ‘i’ closer to keep the perspective right, curve the top of the ‘o’ slightly more than the bottom, and flair the leg of the ‘r’ outward to give it balance.

“Yes,” I tell her as her hand moves gently across the surface, carefully making each letter, “bring the stroke down firmly.”

I smile as I watch her, and feel a tear slowly making its way down my cheek.

“That is good, let the paint flow.”  All this I show her, for among other things, I am her father, and I too am a painter of signs…

Blair P. Grubb, M.D. is Associate Professor of Medicine and Director of Electrophysiology, Pacing and RF Ablation Laboratories at Medical College of Ohio