One, Splendid Day With Dad

One, splendid day with Dad

By T.Wrage

Today has been a good day, Daddy and I sat and had a leisurely breakfast as usual. Where my father is concerned there can be no other way to have a meal. He had his customary breakfast food, oatmeal, orange juice and coffee; I watched his shaking hands bring the spoon to his mouth. Some of the oatmeal dribbles down onto his pants as he always sits too far away from the table.

I pay no mind to this; never do I get cross with him for anything he does. He raised me and I am not his mother, she passed long ago, and he has not needed a mother for a very long time. My place in his life is merely to love him, and make his world as comfortable as possible. I strive each day to accomplish this for him, as he deserves the very best and I intend on giving it to him.

I sit and gaze at him over my coffee cup which is always steaming hot. Once he finishes, he chats, this morning’s conversation was on women who fancied him in younger days. None of which he paid any mind too as he was a faithful husband to my mother, until her death. They were married for almost sixty-seven years.

She was all he knew for most of his long life, he met her when he was twenty-two and she was eighteen. Together they walked the long life walk, never venturing to another for comfort or heat. But this morning he wanted to talk about those that almost were, as he was a dashing looking gentleman in his youth, and even with his age you can still see the handsome man he was.

He speaks gently in his tone as he reflects upon the women that obviously wanted him, I see a twinkle in his eye as he embellishes upon his story of them. He laughs with each woman he mentions and I am so very glad to be with him now at his tender age of ninety-one. My heart bursts with thankfulness that I finally brought him to live with me in Missouri.

Getting him here was no easy feat, if truth be told it was a bit of a nightmare for me. So many decisions to be made, the travel alone was difficult enough to figure out, as he is nearly blind and his hearing is not much better. Moving his furniture was another issue. None of these were insurmountable, but bringing him to my world, to dwell with me in my space, this was the true obstacle I had to overcome.

I have worked long and hard to recreate my life since my divorce; it has been difficult and at times seemed impossible. But I have done it, and moved forward towards better days. My father is now along for the ride, like it or not we seem to be in this together.

Today at lunch the topic was devoted to my mother, as I sat there endlessly listening to him tell the story of how they met and for the first time, as is usually the case since his arrival, I learned even more than I had before. He has told the story of their meeting over and over my entire life, along with all his other stories. But now with him at my table, and having my undivided attention, he is divulging and adding details I never heard before.

I always enjoyed the story of hearing his love, affection and devotion for her and his adoration for her beauty, as she certainly was a striking woman. He expounded on how she had two hours to kill before she started her classes at the University, and this just happened to be the time frame he had off from work. This window of opportunity brought forth a romance that eventually produced four daughters.

My father was born in Brooklyn N.Y. and lived on Long Island with my mother after they were married. His accent is clearly from Brooklyn, even after all the years he lived in Co. he never lost his accent. I moved to Missouri. thirteen years ago, and now he has moved here to live with me. We are two New Yorkers, now living out in the country of Missouri.

I wonder why it is, that I am always the daughter who is with my parents as they near the end of their life. I was the one with mother when she passed. They have four daughters in all, but for some reason it is always me who witnesses these incredible moments in their lives. I do not want to ponder on this thought to much as I have come to embrace it more as a gift to me. These are memories that no one else will ever have, they are mine alone, and I am grateful for them.

Tonight, he chooses for the supper conversation, to be on the topic of work. Dad expounded on the time he was arrested while at work, this was new to me as I was completely unaware he had ever been arrested, for anything. He had worked in the nineteen-forties long before I was born, as a ticket collector for the railroad. Dad loved the railroad; this is where he met my mother. He collected her ticket and eventually her heart.

On this day the police came to pick him up, they escorted him off the train and took him to the office where he worked. The officer claimed my father had stolen over one hundred dollars from the railroad, my father protested this was untrue. They asked, "Can you prove this?" He then showed them his daily receipts which confirmed his innocence. He was never actually arrested but to him this was as close as he ever wanted to get.

The perpetrator was eventually arrested, and my father continued the job he loved. I asked him, “Daddy, how much did you make while you worked for the railroad”, his response was seven dollars and eleven cents a day. Putting this in perspective over one hundred dollar’s was quite a lot of money in those days. I am very glad he saved his daily receipts as he had, or I may not be here today.