Glimpses of Dad

Dad visited our garden today, but he left without a word to me.  Skaggs barked an announcement, but for all I knew, he'd seen a squirrel.  I drew back the blue ruffled curtains, the ones that hang above the kitchen sink and brush against the bottle of Dawn.  I watched, undetected, as Dad walked slowly across the uneven ground in the backyard.  He used to be a straight six feet, but today his head hung and his shoulders rolled forward.  There was no grace in his movement.  He lumbered along, unsteady.  His arms hung limply at his side except for a sudden jerk to balance when his foot hit a rut.  I watched with concern.  There are so many limbs that early autumn winds have blown from our trees.  I worried he would fall and break a hip.

He was returning from our patch of tomatoes, peppers and squash.  My husband planted that little garden, but Dad said he might tend it this year.  It's only a shadow of the garden he nurtured at my childhood home.  Dad moved several years ago to a condo, and it seems he left a bit of himself behind.  I remember the man who bent over seedlings and crumbled clods of dirt around them, almost tenderly.  Today he is stooped and slow.  His pants ride below his round middle and sag on his flat hips.  I can hear Mom saying, "You look like you have a load in your pants!"  Today he carried a lawn chair that looked nearly as battered as he.  His body no longer kneels or bends easily.  Once he tended rows of corn and beans and leaf lettuce.  Today he sat on that beat up lawn chair and pulled weeds but fifteen minutes before tiring.  Where is the connoisseur of peas -- the one who planted five varieties and insisted one was sweeter or firmer or better for freezing?

I wandered to the dining room as Dad prepared to leave.  My presence still unacknowledged, I watched through the window as he climbed into his Civic.  The man that used to walk stony creek beds with me, and run under my swing that he pushed so high, now labored to get in his car.  He clung to the door frame and steering wheel as he got seated.  His left foot remained planted on the driveway until he grasped the thigh with both hands and lifted the leg inside.  I wonder if he should be driving.

Dad came and went today, but there was no knock on my door.  His coming was just a part of his routine:  a few minutes at the gym, a trip to Lo Bill's for the advertised specials, a check of the tomatoes.

My mind's eye is drawn to a picture taken when Dad dated Mom.  He sits lanky, almost sickly thin, on the sofa.  One leg is bent, foot upon the couch.  His arm rests upon the knee of that leg, and he holds a lighted cigarette between the first and second fingers.  He is so handsome, he's almost pretty.  His face is soft, and his eyes seem mysterious, sort of dreamy.  He could have been a movie star.

Today, two photos sit on the mantel in my living room.  The first is Dad with Mom on their wedding day.  He wears a black suit, buttoned at the waist, and a handkerchief is neatly tucked in the breast pocket.  His thick hair is wavy on his forehead -- the hair my Grandpa thought was too long.  I picked up that picture today and was struck by the smile on Dad's face, seeing as for the first time that it is toothy and genuine.  He's standing next to his bride -- the gal with the "cute little arms."

The more recent photo was taken for the church directory.  His lean body has filled out and his suit coat isn't buttoned.  At one time, Dad's protruding Adam's apple was predominant.  In this picture I noticed, instead, the double chin and the full cheeks that are beginning to sag.  The wave on his forehead has given way to wisps of salt and pepper.  Although it is not evident in the photo, I know the skin above his brow is often red and flaking.  He scratches frequently.

I sat down at my piano after Dad left.  Atop it is the framed silhouette of a young girl seated at an upright piano.  It reminds me of Dad.  When I was a child, he'd invite me to play for him rather than coax me to practice.  I was happy to offer those private concerts.  Sometimes he'd take me to the symphony to hear the work of great pianists and tell me I could play like that someday.  I wonder what made him leave today without a word, requesting no such concert.  I feel a little sad.

I can picture him sitting in his recliner by now.  His head is probably dropped, chin against chest, because he's fallen asleep watching some sporting event on TV.  I'm sure his all-cotton white socks are pushed down to relieve the pressure on his swollen ankles.  I envision him in the living room amid a forest of pen and ink, watercolor, and oils.  With the muted blues of lakes, soft golds of sunlight, and grays of snow-kissed winters, he recorded the seasons of his life -- the days before he decided he had no talent and little worth.  Someday the lone lithograph will hang on my wall.  It is sharp edges of black and yellow.  I would have chosen the rare vibrant autumn scene he painted, but it was sold years ago.  Still, a more treasured piece hangs on my refrigerator -- the last artwork I remember him creating.  It is his loving response to a grandchild's request:  Crayola fish swimming in a watercolor sea.  It is not framed in wood, ornately carved or gold-leafed.  Rather, refrigerator magnets and snapshots of those he loves and who love him surround it.

Friday, my daughter will visit her Grandpa and they'll watch "Fiddler on the Roof."  Dad ranks it among the greats with "The Sound of Music" and "Mary Poppins."  He'll probably cry when Tevye sings, "Do You Love Me?" and roll with laughter as he dances to "Tradition!"

I need to visit -- to talk about snow forts, roasted corn, shooting baskets, tearing down the shed, and the year I replanted the irises.  We may recall the squeals of children who ran down the stairs when Dad played "monster" with us in the old house.  But today, I only wonder about the monster that torments his mind; the schizophrenia that has stolen the father I once had.