Friday, August 21, 2015

Thinking of My Father

I put my dad back on the train to Cleveland after a wonderful one week visit.  It was a laidback visit, befitting my dad’s nature, mostly just hanging out, talking, reading, and spending time reconnecting. Highlights were a refreshing afternoon at the pool, a walk around Brookside Gardens, and his getting in nine holes of golf and dinner with his grandson. For me it was welcome companionship, a much needed break from being alone all the time.

My father, praise Spirit, is healthy, in his early 80s.  H lives a good seven hour drive away, but I make sure to see him at least once a year—I wish it could be more.  When we’re apart, what reminds me of him, full in the face and all in a rush?

M*A*S*H or any Alan Alda movie, because I think he looks like him—or vice versa!

Anything to do with Johnny Carson.  We watched together; I guess it must have been when I was an older child or young woman.

Likewise, old musicals, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, old westerns—Sunday afternoons, watching with him.

Laughter is a fine inheritance, and a sense of playfulness, too. 

Having a glass of cold milk with a piece of chocolate cake, that juxtaposition of colors, the melding of the two flavors, like heaven; this is Dad, too.

The smell of British Sterling cologne, which he’s worn all my life.

Big brown bedroom slippers.

Peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Coffee.  Endless cups of coffee.

The slight scratchy feel of his face even after he shaves.

Anything to do with American colonial history, because when I was a teen he was involved in re-enactments as a Minuteman.

Always looking for someone as sturdy and absolutely dependable and loving, I search for my father’s bear hugs.  Phone calls just don't do the trick compared to those hugs goodnight. 

Miss you, Dad!