Dad

Please be careful with this one, it's not fiction.

The following is as much of the truth as I know how to write.

Some dates may be off and I may be seeing a few of the facts through a lens which was a long time in making, but this is the second time I have tried to tell you this story.

Please bear with me; I may never be able to do it well.

April 17, 1969

        My Dad finished his day's work at Ford's Livonia Transmission Assembly Plant, hopped into the family station wagon and made the drive from that Detroit suburb to the more distant one we then called home.

        My Mom had gotten the five of us, of six kids, still at home to finally head off to bed. She turned on the silver, built-in electric oven and chose from the freezer my Father's evening meal. It must've been about just after 11.

       It's strange... the things you think growing up. Dad's evening meal would consist of either a potpie or a Swanson's TV dinner. The fridge always had a stock of those foil-encased delicacies and we kids thought it quite the treat when we got the same thing for dinner that Dad would get when he came home.

        These days I think I'd be hard pressed to get down much of those original recipes... but back then, I kid you not, they were the most wonderful assortment of exotic foods we could imagine. There was a special joy in peeling back that foil to find a whole dinner squeezed inside. No passing the plates or argument over who got the last piece of whatever. Just a compartmentalized tray with everything you need... including a dessert... which could never be rightly predicted (even though it was pictured on the box) the moment those foil packets went into the oven all bets were off on which one was turkey or Salisbury steak or chicken.

         After his heart attack, Dad was no longer allowed to have salt so, the vile tasting 'salt substitute' was placed next to the pepper on one of those small metal trays whose legs scissored to provide support. The tray-table stood just in front of 'his' chair. Wide arms and well worn, it came with a floor lamp beside it, into which was built an ashtray - always ready. The heart attack had also convinced him to cut down on the smokes. He did however carry a pipe. A short corncob affair that rested at the ready in a holster that hung from his belt. Why a corncob pipe?  Beats me. It may have been that they were simply the least expensive... or it may have been that they somehow reminded him of his roots (Born in Aledo, Illinois... in 1920... both economy and corn could have been comfort factors for this then 48 year old).

        The only picture I have of the two of us together was a Christmas shot, taken as he was trying to get me to pose... or to sing. It's a funny old picture... but it's the one that's left to me... so I treasure it.

        The simple workman pictured in it, sitting cross-legged on the floor with one of his boys, did have something more than you'd ever guess. He had, all through his school life, army career and tenure as husband and father, a gift for music. As incongruous as it may sound... this grease monkey could play any instrument that fell into his hands.

        There is a flash of a picture in my memory looking at him as he pumps a harmonica back and forth like a man possessed. Another flash of him trying to tune an old guitar whose face had warped. Then a real memory of what must've been hours of him trying to teach me to play the ukulele (as a pre-cursor to a guitar no doubt). I remember him calling me into the kitchen one afternoon to perform a song for a neighbor or friend... I can't quite recall but... I believe it was well received. I may still have, somewhere in my mind, the fingerings for a chord or two but...

        I just cannot hear the music.

        On that generic night, Dad arrived and sat down to his dinner... he chuckled a bit at Carson who was just finishing his monologue. He was wearing the dark green work pants and plaid shirt that my Mother laid out for him that morning.

        Just after midnight, Mom cleared away the simple dish and went to rinse his cup and fork... Dad, feeling, I'm sure, very well cared for, chose this night to enjoy a Lucky Strike after his meal.

        As she hung up the dishtowel and looked into the living room, she saw him shake his hand... twice, as if it had fallen asleep. Then the cigarette fell from it and he exhaled… for the last time.

        There were no paramedics yet, no 9-1-1, none of the drugs and machines that save a hundred lives a minute these days. By the time she reached him she knew that their 24 and half year marriage had ended in the only way either one of them could ever conceive of it doing so.

        26 years later, she joined him... and he was still the only man she ever loved.

        ----

        Although I did try, I never learned to play an instrument; not the trumpet, the guitar, the harmonica or even the ukulele.

        For that I beg his pardon (and yours)... I think of the joy he absent-mindedly tossed into the laps of others with a talent he couldn't have even wished for and I am sorry that I cannot do the same.

        But... though the tune may wander and the notes are somewhat out of align...

        I play the instrument that he gave me and I hope you can imagine the song.

 

 

Reviews

[dark and twisty]

sad. emotional. bittersweet.

I think what I personally found most touching was this line - 'By the time she reached him she knew that their 24 and half year marriage had ended in the only way either one of them could ever conceive of it doing so.'

It's rare to find people who can love each other even after that long a time together and I truly admire that about your parents. You are fortunate to have that legacy of a love to build your life on. I come from a family where marriages never last and even if they do, they are largely loveless and destructive, also where the pursuit of wealth and social status is important, where lies are spoken to cover up failure, where what society thinks of you is important..

so stories like this, even though the loss itself is heart wrenching and unimaginable, gives me hope that at least there is a man (your father) who lived and loved in a way I have always wanted to but have mostly been made to think is impossible..