COLERAIN, Ohio: To be sure, it was the stupidest thing either one of us had ever done. On Christmas Eve 1986, stopping at my dad’s house here (en route from Mt. Lebanon to my in-laws’ house in Coshocton, Ohio), I forgot to drop off the very prized tin of my grandmother’s Christmas cookies. It was 2 pounds in the round packed with every sugary confection you could imagine. Among them, Granny’s much coveted pineapple cookies, and brownies, with just the right hardness that made the real chocolate taste linger in your mouth for an extra minute, or five. But the car was packed, from front seat to back, from back seat to trunk. Taylor, my elder, all of 11 months old, was packed in there, too. Somewhere. Somehow , the tin never made it inside. In fact, I didn’t even realize I had forgotten it until after New Year’s. That’s when I found a bit of Currier & Ives peaking at me from under the back seat. My mistake was that I didn’t call to let anybody know. Not long after, a package arrived from my dad. He had returned his Christmas fruit cake (Dad was one of God’s chosen who actually liked fruit cake, or so he said.) Inside was a note: “I hope you enjoy this as much as the Christmas cookies you stole!” Certainly, it was a joke, I thought. A quick telephone call confirmed it was not. An honest mistake was spinning out of control. Words were exchanged. Things that never should have been said were. It was the last that we would speak to each other — for 13 years . A lot happened in both my dad’s and my life during that period. One daughter went through pre-school, kindergarten, grade school and junior high. We lost one baby but were blessed with another. She went through grade school. Relatives were born. And more than a few died. We bought a house. We bought four vehicles. We went through three dogs, two birds and one cat, hamster, rabbit and frog. We bought another dog and another frog (to keep a survivor company) and, oh, yes, two cats. (Don’t ask about the crabs or the chicks.) We fixed up the house. We vacationed at the lake. We changed jobs and careers, combined, seven times and four times, respectively. While we were living, though, and unknown to me, my dad had begun to die. I don’t know the exact year, but shortly after he and I had our falling out, he was diagnosed with severe emphysema. Years of smoking, years at the swing and table saws and years at the belt sander had taken their toll. His lungs were badly damaged. If he wanted to be alive at the turn of the century, he would have to begin following a strict regimen of therapy, the doctors told him. And so he did. And with the same gusto and courage that led him to some of the fastest Ohio high school 100-yard dashes of the pre-World War II era; that allowed him to keep his sanity in the Philippine jungles for four years; that helped him earn his engineering degree at the old Indiana Institute of Technology; that helped him build his own house; that helped him design, build and fly radio-controlled model airplanes, some giant, that didn’t defy convention but exploited it; that helped him write a textbook on hydraulics, teach college and invent more than a few “right tools” for more than few challenging jobs. It was the same elan and strength that helped him raise four boys with an unparalleled work ethic — and to help those four boys better cope with the death of their young mother, each at an incredibly tender age no matter whether the number was 14, 17, 20 or 22. In January 2000, following a lot of encouragement from those inside the family and out, my dad and I reconciled. We sat at what we called “the nook” in the kitchen, the built-in table and benches where the family ate supper promptly at 6 o’clock seven days a week for the better part of three decades. Dad was frail and on oxygen. But his voice was strong. His spirits were high. Animosity• There was none. We talked for hours. We met again that Father’s Day, then again on the ninth of July, his 76th birthday. Other commitments kept us from sharing those days and the Christmas holidays in 2001. But in February of this year, he met his youngest granddaughter, Kady, then 11, for the very first time. (Big sister Taylor, 16, was on a high school band trip in Florida.) His eyes sparkled with satisfaction. Her eyes marveled at the prospect of a “new” grandpa. Taylor met her grandfather for the first time since she was 11 months old this month. The environment, however, wasn’t as hospitable, in the intensive care unit of East Ohio Regional Hospital in Martins Ferry. The years of reduced lung function had taken their toll on the morning of May 8. My dad couldn’t breathe. He needed help. He had to go to the hospital. Time was not on his side. And he knew it. “I don’t have long, Colin,” he told me the next night, the last night of his conscious life. And he didn’t. But that didn’t stop him from smiling at the newly permitted Taylor and telling her, in the best grandfatherly fashion, to be careful driving. His eyes told me what a struggling-for-breath voice could not — how pleased he was to finally meet her. I kissed his forehead and, gazing into his eyes, gave and got the firm handshake he taught me as a little boy. It was the last time our eyes would meet. Lewis Scott McNickle Jr., 78, the only son of Lewis Scott McNickle Sr. and Mildred Park, devoted husband to Catherine, and father to Scott III, Kevin, Shannon and Colin, died Tuesday morning. His family was with him. His passing was peaceful. His life was full, though I’m sure he regretted that his never-sharper mind couldn’t be transplanted into a body half the age of his. We buried dad next to mom late Saturday morning, five months short of her burial 30 years ago in historic Farmington Cemetery, just down the road from home, their Shangri-la. The sweeping vista of his final resting place is one of an expansive and serene Ohio valley that surely will free his soul and allow his mortal remains solace. And should the winds be calm enough on summer nights after the supper hour, I would not be surprised at all to hear tales of phantom model airplanes soaring high above, even showing off with a loop or two. This past Feb. 1, that old, familiar script of my dad’s hand found its way into my mailbox. It was the first written correspondence from him since that note about “stolen” Christmas cookies 15 years before. Dad had just gotten out of the hospital after a cataract operation. “Thanks for the books this (past) summer & the tapes this Christmas!” he wrote. “I can see 20/20 now!!!” Thanks to you , Dad, so can I. So can I. Good-bye, Dad. I love you. I will miss you — very deeply. And, oh, how I wish I could recover those 13 years that two stubborn Scots-Irishmen lost so intemperately so long ago.

---

Copyright ©2026— Trib Total Media, LLC (TribLIVE.com)

---