Thanks, Dad: Jeff Kemp's ode to his famous father

Never has one short syllable felt so involved.

"Dad was an interesting cat," Kemp says, smiling.

Jack Kemp was a gregarious cat, a visionary cat, a long-winded cat. He willed his way into becoming a significant NFL and AFL quarterback, and then he turned into an even more significant politician. And Jeff, the oldest of his four children, experienced much of the prodigious journey.

The most meaningful part was the end, when the charismatic public servant could only be Dad, when he traded his big ideas for the little things, when his public life turned private. For the first time in his overbooked adulthood, Jack paused, and as he waited for cancer to conquer him, he gave his family a long-desired gift — his full attention.

Those final memories, still fresh and profound, soften a grieving process that is only seven weeks old. Jack died May 2 at age 73. Jeff, also a former NFL quarterback, reflected on his father's life over breakfast at a Bellevue restaurant recently. He is heartened by some parting words his irrepressible hero made, a prayer Dad said for him on the deathbed.

"Dear God, help Jeff to realize his talent," Jack said. "Help him to realize the force for good ... "

He couldn't finish the sentence. Jeff knew what he meant: the force for good inside of him.

"And help us both to realize the only thing that matters is thy will be done," Jack concluded.

After recounting the memory, Jeff shook his head and said his favorite word.

Dad.

So, what's it like to be in a family led by an alpha male with enough power to influence the nation?

Awesome. Challenging. Funny.

Jack was an affectionate, encouraging father who had huge dreams for his children. He raised them by emphasizing his grand visions, and his wife, Joanne, focused on the specifics.

One family motto: "You're a Kemp. Be a leader." Another: "History matters." And another: "Ideas have consequence."

The Kemp kids — Jeff, Jennifer, Judith and Jimmy — didn't feel pressure to live up to their father's standard so much as they felt inspired to be standouts in whatever fields they chose. After Jack married Joanne, he converted to his wife's Presbyterian faith, and everything they taught their kids started with the idea that God has a plan for them. The parents were determined to support that plan.

"We didn't have to be the president or senators or starting NFL quarterbacks to make them happy," Jeff said.

They did have to be intellectuals, however. It was a necessity, even for eating dinner. Jeff often recited poems ("Kipling or something like that," he says) during dinner. Jack was a Congressman from 1971 to 1989 and then spent four years as President George H.W. Bush's Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. He ran for president in 1988 and was the Republican vice-presidential nominee in 1996. But what that really means is a lot of smart people came over for dinner.

"We always ate dinner together, as a family," Jeff said. "If he didn't finish work until 8:30 at night, we'd eat at 9. Dinner was a mandatory, life-shaping experience."

One of the most memorable — and combative — dinners occurred when Jack invited Chuck Colson, the former President Nixon aide who wound up serving time in prison for Watergate and later founded Prison Ministries. Jack challenged every idea Colson presented during the dinner discussion.

"Jack, I thought you believed in my ideas," Colson said afterward. "Why did you do that?"

"That was awesome," Jack replied. "It was awesome for the kids, having you defend your ideas. It was a great lesson."

Despite his busy schedule, Jack never missed watching his sons play their football games as children and in college. Jeff and Jimmy were both quarterbacks, and even though Dad was a seven-time all-star and two-time champion, he didn't force his methods on them.

"He would find the needle in a haystack that he could encourage," recalled Jeff, now 49 and living in Redmond. "I remember playing in the NFL, and I was the No. 3 quarterback in San Francisco. Dad called after the game and said, 'Jeff, I saw you today. You looked great.' I said, 'Dad, I didn't even get in the game.' He said, 'Yeah, but I saw you warming up. You looked great.' "

As much as Jack loved parenthood, he was also consumed with a desire to influence the country. That passion often overtook him. He rarely knew the small details of his children's lives. He rarely knew who they were dating. He didn't lecture them about alcohol and drugs. He trusted his kids would stay fixed on the big picture he envisioned for them. And he trusted his wife would put out all the little fires.

Great story about Jack's tunnel vision: When Jeff brought his future wife, Stacy, home for the first time, his father was out trying to play tennis during a huge storm. The rain flooded the basement. Stacy and the rest of the Kemps scrambled to remove water, and later Jack stomped into the house, looked at them and said, "Dang it, the tennis courts haven't dried out! What are you doing?"

Then he retreated upstairs to read.

"He kind of blocked out the necessities of life so that he could focus on football, tennis and saving the world," Jeff said, laughing. "He had all sorts of quirks. His imperfections were big, just as his amazing traits were big. He had a certain bit of ego, balanced by humility. He was an interesting cat."

As Jeff grew older, he started to crave more from his father. He appreciated Jack's macro-parenting, but he wanted to have more intimate moments with his dad. He wanted to fully understand what made the affable Jack Kemp tick. Sure, he knew his dad well enough to introduce him at the 1996 Republican National Convention, when Jack accepted the party's vice-presidential nomination, but he wanted more wisdom, more stories and more love. And, most of all, more attention.

It happened gradually. Even when he was busy, Jack was good at letting his children and grandchildren know how much he cared. He wrote notes on personalized sheets of paper and mailed them. When Jeff started doing "Welcome To Manhood" vacations to usher his sons into adult life, Jack attended and shared his perspective. He loved his grandchildren and loved telling stories about them. He joked that one of Jeff's sons, Kory, once introduced him at school as a "very important public serpent."

Still, Jeff felt his father shielded a part of himself, perhaps because the pressure and criticism of politics demanded it. Or perhaps it's just the way of dads. It seems that most of the good ones are more respected than understood.

At the end of his life, however, Jack opened up completely. He had no other choice. He found out that cancer was causing the pain in his hip, and five months later, he was gone. During those five months, Jeff flew from Seattle to Washington, D.C., once a month to visit his father. Dad gave him and all of his children the insight and time they needed.

Jeff used those final months as a chance to share everything with his father. He even wrote a long letter thanking Jack for all he ever did for him.

"Jeff, you're too much," Jack said after reading it.

And then they cried together.

Later, when cancer robbed the seemingly indefatigable Jack of his energy, Jeff sat with his father in silence. The connection was there now, for certain. Jeff learned what he needed to learn. His hero became simply his father.

Since Jack Kemp's death, his firstborn child hasn't cried much. Jeff had five months to grieve, five months to unpeel a new layer of his father. As much as he misses Dad, this ending feels right.

"I don't know what will happen a year from now," Jeff said. "I don't know what sorrow or waves will hit me later, but I feel peace and assuredness over the fact that an awesome chapter has closed. My dad was a real interesting cat."

He looked into the distance and grinned.

"Thy will be done."

Jerry Brewer: 206-464-2277 or jbrewer@seattletimes.com