Those Were The Days!

The silence is cut with a sharp phone ring. Dad's on the line from Indiana. We exchange our usual pleasantries regarding the weather, but his words are spoken casually. A vague uneasiness filters into my mind, “too casual,” I think. 

           And then, words I don't want to hear creep into my consciousness. "The spot on my lungs is much larger than it was three years ago; it's spread to my other organs."

           "Three years ago?" I shout into the now hated object in my hand. "Haven't they checked that spot since then?" Desperation overcomes. I'm not ready to let go. I still had a million things to tell him.

           My mind reels with a vicious kaleidoscope of words circling around in my head. "My father is dying. I can't do anything about it. He is the center of the family from which all of us emanate.”

           This is the dad who lay on his back in the grass with my siblings and me on warm summer nights to watch the wonder of shooting stars. He taught me to drive and we both lived through the harrowing experience even though I nearly put us in a ditch trying to master the clutch, brake, accelerator and steering wheel all at once, in the days before automatic shifts. 

           My father’s favorite (and affordable) entertainment was going for family rides in the car, singing together as rain pelted the windshield and sprayed off the running boards. After my tonsil operation, his special treat for me was a “Dairy Queen,” a sensational new soft ice cream.” I can still recall the creamy coldness soothing my raw throat.                              

           Floods of letters and calls speed over the miles in the next few weeks. He courageously comforts me. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Time finally softens the helpless feelings and early grieving.

           He insists the family come home for his 80th birthday, knowing it will be his last.

Children and grandchildren arrive for his last celebration of life. We gather at a restaurant, encircling one of their largest tables, solidifying the "sense of family" he is so proud of.

           We visit later at home, each of us saying good-bye in our own way. Bravely bearing his burden, always with our feelings uppermost in his mind, he never asks, or expects, sympathy. "You can grieve a little bit," he says, "but I don't want you carrying on too long. I've lived a full life and am going to be with my Lord." This from a man who knows his Bible inside out and, every day precisely at 11:00 a.m., turns on the radio, gets a beer out of the refrigerator, sits down at the table and listens to his favorite preacher. “I never drink before noon,” he says, “but it must be noon somewhere in the world.”

           He stands at the door in an old flannel shirt as we prepare to leave. We share our last hug. More memories surface. I was his little girl who couldn’t pronounce some words correctly and was always promising to bake him a “cweree pie” and “bwaid” his hair (it barely covered the top of his head.) He couldn’t swim and was afraid of the water but would stand on the shore patiently watching over my siblings and me as we swam in the lake. This is the same lake where we pulled a little sapling maple from the bank to plant in our yard. It’s a huge shade tree now, but the marvel of its growth was always a source of animated discussion when I visited over the years.

           And then, there’s the sugar thing. It didn’t matter how much sugar Mom put on something - strawberries, for instance. He’d yell from the living room, “Helen, these strawberries need a little more sugar.”

           As an autumn leaf displays its last beauty before gently letting go and drifting to earth, this compassionate man eases our pain, sharing his courage to help us understand that he is unafraid as he, too, lets go. His only request is that we look after Mom.

           In a few months, we travel home once again to attend the funeral. As I visit with one of my sisters, I spout my indignation at the cause of his death. “Well, you know he always ate all that white bread and fried food, gravy on everything and gallons of coffee everyday, no wonder.” She gives me an incredulous look stating, “Connie, he lived to be 82.”

           At church before the service, teary-eyed grand-daughters place red roses in the casket beside their cherished grandfather. A letter from his grandson, Garry, is also included. Grandpa had read it to anyone who would listen. The message, in part, “You’ve probably had a greater influence on my life than any other person.”

           Family members are still visiting at the graveside when, suddenly, thunder rumbles from the Heavens. Bloated drops of rain plummet to earth whereupon a grandson remarks, "That's Grandpa, he's arrived and telling us we've carried on long enough."

           Once again, memories invade my thoughts. I clearly remember all the incidents above. I cherish the patience he had of listening to the grandchildren who engaged him in long winded conversations. Even with some minor character   incidents, to them, he was a well-respected and valued giant who had the patience to listen to them and make them think he was totally there for their stories or conversations that were so important to them. He was the kind of grandparent every kid should have. One who was revered, loved and respected. Through many years of struggling financially, he looked after his family. We never knew we were poor or needed anything. We always wore our clothes to school two days. One new pair of shoes and one outfit to start the new school year were provided. We shined our shoes on Saturday night to be ready for church the next morning. We shined our shoes on Saturday night to be ready for church the next morning. We shined our shoes on Saturday night to be ready for church the next morning. Santa always knocked on the door Christmas Eve and, to our surprise, there was a bag with treats for everyone, but Santa was nowhere to be found.

Those were the days, quite unusual for today’s concepts, and hard for kids today to imagine.

           Even though we never knew we were limited, we had no idea we lacked for anything. One orange in the Christmas stocking was an unbelievable treat.

           Those were the days!