Parents

There is a blog that I found recently that is written by a man who writes well on a variety of topics that I find interesting.  He has been kind enough to comment on this blog, particularly expressing his good wishes after the fire in my building.  He is going through a difficult time right now, as his mother is deteriorating in both physical and mental health and decisions have to be made.  He remarked that he has come to the realization that he has only memories left.

This caused me to think about my Dad.  I think of him often.  The last time I saw him, he was near death and didn't know who I was until I told him, nor did he recognize his grandson who was with me.  That memory is not what I want to keep in my mind and heart, for at that time he bore little resemblance to the man who raised me.

The man I choose to remember is the one who came home with a new lawn mower and had me convinced that it was my birthday present that year, before giving me the softball glove that I had been hounding him to get for me.

This same man who, when I took the family car for a drive at age 16 and ran it out of oil, frying the engine, didn't get angry and yell, but patiently explained the inner workings of engines and that checking the oil was a good thing and those red lights had meaning that I needed to pay attention to.  He then made sure that I knew how to check all the fluids in a car and how to change a tire, skills that have helped me since.

This same man instilled in me the love of gardening.  He worked along side me, tilling and planting and weeding.  He sat with me in the middle of the tomato patch, salt shaker in hand and with me, ate tomatoes until we could eat no more.  He showed me the fun of trying new things, and each year that we had a garden, we tried some new plant that we had not grown before, just for the fun of seeing what would happen.

This same man took me fishing, renting a boat for the day and using the old, temperamental motor that he kept in the trunk of his car all summer long.  He showed me how to choose tackle, how to bait a hook and taught me the patience needed to catch fish.  And in the process, he showed me the beauty of nature around me.

This same man took me back of the grove of trees at our home in the country and into the field, set up targets and showed me how to use a gun.  He laughed at me when his old shotgun that I insisted I wanted to try set me back on my butt and he praised me when I hit the target.  Although I don't hunt, he showed me how to safely carry a gun, how to make sure there was nothing beyond a target that a bullet would damage and to make sure I knew exactly what I was aiming at before I fired.  He taught me how to cut up a deer and I have used that skill many times over the years, for sometimes, venison was all that we had to eat for meat.

This same man kissed me goodbye every morning before he left for work, for the entire time I lived under his roof.  And when I no longer lived close to him and communicated by telephone, he never failed to end a conversation by saying, "I sure love you, Sis."

This same man worked sometimes three jobs at once to care for my mother who was so badly crippled with arthritis.  And the same man who cared for her at home for many years after his retirement until she required more specialized care than he could give.  When I once asked him how he could do this for all those years, he replied, "I love your mother."  That was the only reason necessary for him.

This is the man I remember, much more than the frail one in the nursing home.  I think I may have to take the time to write down more of my memories of him, for myself, for my children and for my grandchildren who didn't have the privilege of knowing him.