Today would have been my Dad’s 80th Birthday.
Recently, I found this note I had written on my phone in March of 2006, 4 years before he would pass away:
My father has Alzheimer’s. As he loses himself, I find my mind racing to catalogue and file my memories of him. Band-aid. Is it easier to lose someone entirely in one instance – rip the band-aid off and accept the keenly sharp and searing pain, knowing it will eventually lessen? After a loved-one dies, regret emerges. “I wish I had had the time to say goodbye.” “I wish I had had more time to spend with him.” I have the time, relatively speaking, but how much time do I have? When someone voices those regrets, it comes from the sudden loss of the person they love. I have already lost a percentage of the person I love. Does that make him the same person? Is half a book as valid as the fully realized story? How do you enjoy a song that has no notes, or a meal with no taste? In the cycle of life, where are we right now? This imagery/metaphor was always a smooth circle for me, then as I started to learn about the world outside myself, a sphere. Now, I have come to believe that life does work in a cycle, but instead of a clean circle or sphere, it is a rotary, or a spherical pincushion, with many off-shoots at even angles – some of us go around and round until we can make it to the exit we desire, some go around and round until we tire of it, others go straight for the first exit, scared of the traffic, or unwilling to feel the curve. Better still, it is a wreath or woven sphere of twigs with many branches and variants – there may be one or two twigs that go all the way around, experiencing every angle – some twigs that jut out at odd angles away from the center, some towards the center, an infinite variety of possibilities. How do you pick the right branch for you? Do you even have the choice, or is it pre-ordained? Doctors, priests, ‘experts’ tell us to pick ‘the right path’ – how do they know? My father ate well, thanks in no small part to my mother, went to bed early, woke with the dawn, performed a stretching routine he did every morning, had a healthy breakfast, often rode his bike to and from work, and he hardly ever seemed stressed. That sounds pretty close to the right path according to the doctors – were they right, and destiny chose that he should lose himself just before his hard work was done, just before his dreams of retirement and leisure could be obtained? He is a man of leisure now – in the way prisoners are. Only, instead of concrete and steel, he is imprisoned by his own mind. Steven Hawking lives his life, a brilliant mind stuck in a broken body. I used to think that must be so frustrating. But I think that is because I always took my body and mind for granted. How many time do you find yourself at work, in a long line, in class, lying in bed, anywhere and your mind ‘wanders’ (what a great phrase) and transports you somewhere completely away from where you are. Like Mr. Hawking, you are free of the constraints forced on your body – He is confined to a contraption that helps his body to keep him alive, but his mind is off searching the universe. Do you think, were he born completely healthy, that he would have had the opportunity to contemplate the universe as thoroughly as he does if he was hindered by the distractions of walking, speaking, dancing, driving, etc. Without trying to, how often have you found yourself, your body, stuck in traffic or at the office or waiting in line and your beautiful mind takes you away from where your body is trapped to your last vacation, or some other place? Imagine the opposite. Your body moves freely, but your mind is lost. Your body can wander aimlessly, but never find your mind. You wouldn’t even know what to look for, or where to find it. We place too much emphasis on the tangible. I cherish my memories – for some of us, that is all we have, there are the experiences that make us who we are – how exceptionally cruel it is, then, to slowly and systematically have that taken away. To become a shell.
The thrill when he hurt his back – that meant he stayed home in bed for a few days – I ‘took care’ of him by bringing him books to read to me.
Getting a little chunky (OK all my clothes were “Huskies”) and not having any friends that I played with outside of school, it was decided (I am sure, looking back as an adult) that I should get out of the house more and, maybe even fearing I turn to a ‘mamma’s boy’ (inevitable), that I needed to hang-out with Dad more. Almost every weekend, Dad would pick a new place for us to go – The Whaling Museum, climbing the Blue Hills, Edaville Railroad, Ski trips, the Boat Show, etc. It was always fun, sometimes educational – but it was perfect. He never tried to take me to a game or do some other thing I wouldn’t like. And it was always just us. My brothers never came, not that they would have wanted to. It was ‘our time’ and I look back and am thankful we had it. Major ‘our time’ came two summers in a row when we drove (well, Dad drove, I was too young) up to Nova Scotia and back. I wish I had thought to write down the names and stories and songs I heard those two too-brief trips. The ‘duty free’ shop was a guy that carried your bag over the border for you. We bought a bottle of Scotch for Byron because he had the shingles. This made no sense to me as a child, but I took it as fact that Scotch helped with shingles (whatever that was) because of my Dad. Private jokes and stories that no one else could be a part of came from those times together – yup yup yup {sucking in air}! “Oh Wallace, that was lovely” etc. The pride when, on the first trip, the family had a sold-out benefit concert in the little community theatre/barn in Upper Musquodobit (sp?) and during “the King of (whatever it is)” number – I told the woman next to me who was laughing so hard that “That’s my Dad.” 🙂
I cry when I hear, or start to sing Puff the Magic Dragon. I had the luxury of being serenaded to sleep often, and that was one of my favorites, along with You Are My Sunshine and the aforementioned King of whereverhewasfrom. Back Home Again, I know now is a John Denver song, but back then it was the song Dad and Angel plucked-out in the hallway minutes before performing in beautiful harmony in front of the audience. I never know when it is going to hit, but more and more songs are becoming surprise weepers.
He could pick up almost any instrument, without formal training, and teach himself to play. I envy his ability and patience to practice practice practice. I always wanted perfection from the start. He always started out sounding good, but practice and perseverance made him great. The pedal steel amazed me, even then – now it blows my mind! One hand slid the slide up and down the frets, sometimes pressing all the strings, sometimes barely touching just one, then bouncing into a glissando slide and twangy bump while the other hand is plucking strings – each finger individually, while the feet were pushing pedals, while both knees pushed levers that modulated the notes even more. I was, and still am, convinced that whoever created the thing was mad, but my Dad was a genius to be able to play it and make it sound as good as it did.
Love – I learned it from my parents. Hugs from behind while dishes are being washed, playful teases, dancing in the kitchen to the radio, or just a really good commercial jingle, or no music at all, Dad serenading Mom with a song from their younger days, Mom singing along, flowers on payday, cards for all occasions, kisses whenever possible, hugs constantly.
Dinner when my Dad had to cook:
Pancakes in the shapes of our initials, or Mac & Cheese.
Later on, anything grilled.
A towel duct-taped around the crossbar of his bike served as a side-saddle for me to go with him on his bike rides.
Waking up earlier than everyone else at the beach cottage and taking the sailboat along the shore to go to the little post office/general store for OJ when it was much easier to walk or take the car. Why? Because we could, and when you build and repair a boat crouched-over in the basement during the winter, spend all Spring cleaning it and making it watertight, and only get two weeks to use it – you use it any chance you get.
Halloween as Igor. He would take us around Trick-or-Treating hunched-over with just his bald head sticking out of the collar of his jacket. My Mom would paint a face on the top of his head, and we would lead him around on a rope. The neighbors loved it, and so did I.
Small Stuff 