My dad Dennis Moore saw the best in people. Here are the life lessons he taught me

Just days before what would have been his 76th birthday, my dad Dennis Moore passed from complications related to pancreatic cancer. I thought my dad’s dad — Grandpa Warner to me — had passed too early at age 85, yet here I am saying goodbye to my dad, 10 years the younger. It feels too soon.

My dad was the consummate politician and he thrived in this capacity. As a U.S. congressman and district attorney before that, he loved being out there in the world, connecting with people, engaging and entertaining. My dad was a guitar player. And boy was he good — good enough to play with Glen Campbell and Peter, Paul and Mary. I believe he was a romantic earlier in life, but I also believe 12 years as DA hardened him, necessarily. And still, my dad was both lighthearted and a charmer, because we needed that.

My dad saw in people their best selves and acknowledged that in everyday life, not all of us start with the same advantages. For this reason, my dad tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and so was kind to all. He smiled with the sole goal of making others smile too.

My dad was also extraordinarily cheap, or as he might have said, “thrifty.” As a child, I used to absolutely hate this. It wasn’t until later in life that I came to understand why so many born just after the Great Depression shared this trait. I also eventually came to admire this, sort of.

At age 66, my dad shared publicly that he’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Grandpa Warner had suffered the same affliction, so the signs were fresh in our minds. Of course, though horrifyingly, having been through it before meant we had some sense for what to expect.

Calling Alzheimer’s an awful disease is a gross understatement. It tears at families, and it is cruel and merciless toward its victims, stripping them of their dignity and obscuring lifetime achievements. But not here, not this time. I refuse to remember my dad as a victim, and I’m certain that’s exactly how he’d want it. I will remember him as “Denny,” lead singer and guitarist for Denny and the Doo Dahs, along with his buddies, Buser and Tatem. I will remember his never staying awake for the end of any movie, ever. I’ll remember our running Saturday morning errands together, him with his coffee mug, me with my OJ. I’ll remember his razor nicks covered by tiny tears of toilet paper, his scrambled eggs, and his bright blue starched jeans.

I’ll remember my dad’s always wanting to meet at Tanner’s, his drinking wine from a box, his ordering exactly what he’d eat and not a touch more, and his carrying Dentyne cinnamon gum. But most important, I’ll remember how warm was my dad’s smile.

I’m sad that my dad and I didn’t spend more time with one another. I’m sad we didn’t have more honest discussions, more often. I wish we had passed more Christmases and Thanksgivings together. I wish he had known my children better, and they him. I’m sad that I could not have done more to help my father near the end — I would have liked to try. I wish we had discussed end-of-life expectations so that I might’ve better understood his wishes when his time came. But we did not. And now that opportunity is lost.

Perhaps the lesson to me is to connect more with my children, to ensure that my dad’s grandchildren don’t carry the same regrets I now feel when my time comes. Perhaps we will be closer. Perhaps they will know me better and will be able to comfortably contribute to decisions on my behalf. Perhaps this is my dad’s lasting gift to me, and to my family.

I love you, Dad.

This story was originally published November 4, 2021 at 5:00 AM.