The Long Journey Home To Say Goodbye

“Dad passed away this morning.”

The words hung in the quiet morning air, with only the soft background hum of the FaceTime connection filling the 4,000-mile void between me and my mother.

You know your parents will eventually leave you. But you’re never quite prepared to hear those words. Watching your mother, as her pale face crumples and her eyes tear up, relaying the terrible news to her only child.

As readers of this column might know, I’m British. My parents live in the South of France, and as a resident of Central Florida, I’m a long way from home. In the days ahead, and before emotions could catch up, the logistics suddenly demanded my attention… how to get me and my 12-year-old son Lucas to France in time for the funeral, where I was to deliver the eulogy.

At times, I wasn’t sure if we’d make it. Lucas and I left Florida for France on a Monday. We eventually arrived, frazzled, exhausted, but determined, on the following Friday. Challenges at every turn: cancellations, snowstorms, delays, missed connections, reroutings, an unplanned overnight in London… and, sadly, an airline industry that really doesn’t care that you’ve just lost your father and are holding yourself together with caffeine and sheer willpower. All while trying to comfort your little boy who has already endured losing his own father at far too young an age.

John Dixon, my father, lived a full and valuable life. Born and raised in Wimbledon, London, he played in tennis tournaments as a teenager. As an adult, he worked for NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) in Paris, attending night school to learn French before taking charge of translating official NATO documents. He promoted Eveready batteries in West Africa. He explored Peru and brought home a balaclava for two-year-old me. He worked for Louis Marx toys in Connecticut.

And then he started his own company in the UK, where he and his business partner invented and developed so many amazing toys. ThunderCats. Dune. Dungeons & Dragons. Air Hogs. Sylvanian Families… the list goes on.

He passed his love and deep knowledge of photography and jazz to me, and for that I’m forever grateful. He taught me the finer things in life, and I gained my love of travel early on from joining my parents on their yearly explorations. He taught me to enjoy a really good scotch, and he taught me how to carve a roasted chicken.

When I was about three, he gave me the nickname “Trouble,” quickly abbreviated to “Trubs.” It stuck. Chatting with him last summer, I thanked him for everything he had done for me. “I’m so glad you’re my dad,” I told him. And he responded with his typical wit, “I suppose I’m quite glad you’re my daughter, Trubs.” I’m so grateful for that moment. It occurs to me now that I’ll never again hear him say “Hi Trubs!” and that’s going to take some getting used to.

There are so many things about him I’ll miss. His quiet pride. His incredible generosity of spirit. His love of fast cars. His fabulous quick, dry, humor. His exceptional intelligence and creativity. The wonderful toys he dreamed up and brought to the world. His love of fine wine. His easygoing nature. His stoicism and equanimity during his illness. None of it went unnoticed. They don’t make them like John Dixon anymore. I’m so very glad he was ours.

Fly free, dad. We will always remember you. We will always, always love you.

A writer and photographer, Emma Dixon was born in England and started her career in London. She now lives in Central Florida with her son and their cat.