Hey all, hope you are having a good week. The weather has turned here and it is COLD!!!! I am talking parka, hats, mittens, and snow pants cold! Snow is falling off and on and just about 50 miles to the northeast of here they got more that 11 inches of it overnight, causing several schools to be closed today. It seems far to early in the season for this, but what can you do? Nothing except make sure your snow shovel is nearby and throw another blanket on the bed.
This blog is one that I wrote a few months ago, when it was still summer, the days were longer, and I was writing like a maniac. It is the result of a visit to my parents place up north. A wonderful visit, filled with laughter and stories, but a visit that made me stop and think, made me evaluate some things, and made me start to prepare myself for the inevitable. It is, to me, a memory, a lament, and a simple piece that tells of the man my father was and the man he has now become. Nats, my apologies in advance, and grab your tissues.
I remember when I was a little girl and I would rise early in the mornings to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. My father would already be up and in the bathroom shaving, the handle of his shaving brush clinking softly against the side of the soap mug as he worked up the lather, which he would spread in a thick layer across his cheeks and chin and I would sit in his chair at the kitchen table and wait. In a few minutes he would stick his head out the door, face still half covered in white lather and say, "OK, you can push it down." That was my cue, time to do my job, and I would climb up on my knees and reach across the table to the toaster, put in two slices of bread and push the lever down to start it cooking. My father would finish with his shaving, but would not emerge until I called out, "your toast popped," then he would amble out, the scent of the Williams Shaving Soap, so fresh and clean, still lingering on him.
He would swing me out of the chair in his strong arms and set me in the seat beside his as he reached for the toast, spreading butter lightly across it and then adding a smear of my mother's homemade strawberry jam. The jam was the important part and the job was done with the precision of a surgeon. The jam spread just so, right to the edges, and always at least one large, still intact berry, somewhere on the toast. He would pour out his coffee and add the cream and sugar, stirring it in, the spoon making a merry clink each time it hit the bottom and sides of the cup. The rhythm of that clinking never changed, like a piece of music played at the beginning of each day. A familiar and comforting thing that you could count on to happen, like the sun rising and the rains of spring.
Together we would sit, him eating his toast and me sipping milk from a small cup and always he would spot something outside the window that would draw his attention away from me for a moment. Never more than a moment, but that was all the time needed for me to reach out and snag that large strawberry from the top of his toast. I would do it quickly, shoving it in my mouth, savoring the flavor and then his attention would return to me, and he would notice the missing berry and wonder aloud what could have happened to it, while I struggled not to laugh.
When he finished the last sip of his coffee, he would head for the door where his work boots waited. He would grab the old shoe brush, with its heavy wooden handle and ever so soft bristles and give those boots a quick once over before putting them on and lacing them up. He would lean down and give me a peck on the forehead and as he turned toward the door, I would remind him to say hi to Goldie the cat on the way to his car and he would always say gruffly, "that mangy old good for nothing cat, I will not," and he would walk out into the day. I would fly to the kitchen, climb up on his chair and watch out the window as he made his way to the garage. Goldie would come bounding across the yard to greet him and he always took a minute to reach down and pet him, his gruffness forgotten as he said good morning to the mangy old good for nothing cat. It made me smile and to remember it now still does.
Many years have passed since those mornings of my youth, but the one thing that never changed was my father. Staunch and steadfast, he changed very little over the intervening years. He remained tall and strong, our morning rituals giving way to new ones as I grew. Goldie being replaced by countless other cats and pets that came and went as the years passed. My father, looking so handsome in his suit, gave me away at my wedding, gave me a shoulder to cry on when a miscarriage ended my first pregnancy, and delighted in welcoming my other children into the world. He stood by as my marriage ended and provided quiet strength and guidance as I built a new life as a single mom. He never wavered in his emotional support, his pride in his children and in his love for us. Those quiet mornings we once shared gave way to the hectic days of my adult life and he was there, always in the background, a strength to rely on and a comfort that was never more than a phone call away.
The passing of the years have been, for the most part, good to my father, but still, time and age do take their toll. About 20 years ago, while helping my father take some things to the dump, I was struck by the fact that my father was no longer a young man. He had somehow aged without my noticing and was no longer that handsome powerful man from my youth. He seemed smaller somehow, and I realized for the first time that he was not a very large man, but had seemed so much larger in the eyes of the little girl that had stolen the fat strawberries from his toast. To that little girl he was a giant of a man, a power to be reckoned with, and I had carried that vision of him all my life.
Two weeks ago I went to visit my parents and my father, now just shy of his 80th birthday, is no longer the man he once was. Sure, he is still kind, still caring, but the man I knew as a child and as a younger adult is gone, replaced by a man that is suddenly very old. His hair, always a bit sparse is now completely white and the bald spot he had when I was younger has given way to a shiny pate, fringed by a bright white fluff of hair. His mind, once so sharp and quick, now struggles to find the words he needs and his wonderful stories are locked inside forever, as he can no longer find the necessary words to free them. The lines in his face have grown deep with the passing of time and his gate is now unsteady at best and he hangs on tightly to the newly installed handrails lining the steps leading down the hill to their cottage by the lake. I watched as he struggled to rise from his chair, his legs now weakened by age, and I remembered the man he was. I lament the loss of that man and find it difficult to see the man he is now, old and frail, standing in the place of my beloved father.
While I don't want to say goodbye to this wonderful man that has meant so much to me, I pray that his remaining time will be kind to him and that one night he will pass gently in his sleep, suffering no pain and feeling no fear. I feel that would be a fitting end to a life that has caused no pain to others and given so much to those that have known and loved him. To lose him will be a sad thing, but to know that he is at peace and safe from harm will hopefully make it easier. My father has been a guiding light in my life and as that light dims, I can only hold on to all the things he taught me, all the stories he told, and all the laughter we shared. He will always be my dad, a source of strength and a wonderful source of loving support and even when his time here in this world comes to an end, the lessons, the laughter, and the love will remain.
later...
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