Showing posts with label Fathers day. Show all posts

Friday, June 15, 2012

Going for a walk with Dad - Tribute to my father.

I am going for a walk with dad. We won’t go far; he doesn’t walk so good these days and his stamina is not all it once was. Sugar, mom and dad’s curly white haired dog, needs to go out. The day is already warming up even though it is early morning.

We walk slowly. There is so much in that. We walk slowly. Somehow, I want to be that kid again, who can barely keep up with dad as he walks home from work. From the time the ear-piercing factory whistle blows and the men come bustling out of the building with dad in their fray, me racing to greet him; we walk f-a-s-t. That is to say, I take the biggest steps I can trying to emulate dad’s even paced gait, then I run a bit to catch up and reach for one of his swinging arms and hands. If I catch one and hold on, he will carry me forward and back again like a windmill powered by the wind. His arms are as strong as seasoned oak tree limbs and remind me of his middle name, Hercules.

Dad’s arms are a third the size they were then, yet they still show signs of the strength they once held, the weight they carried. As we silently walk and he characteristically adjusts his pants at the waist with the base of his hands, I notice them. His hands-forever in my mind as human vice grips, yet tender and loving they feel on my back as we hug when I come to visit. Time seems to move as slowly as our walk. Dad fidgets with Sugar’s leash trying to get her to move along and do her job. I notice his fingernails. Such a strange thing to find myself focused on. They are much larger than mine are and square cut at the ends. Somehow, they too say dad to me. His hands arthritic, his skin well tanned and wrinkled speak not just of age but of his life-youth only seldom mentioned, war rarely, work, husband, father.

Dad nearly stumbles as he crosses his feet walking precariously close to the curb. I reach out and take his hand to steady him, urging him away from the curb. I want to give him some of my strength, to give back some of what he gave me.

There is a large white bird, maybe an egret high on a nearby rooftop of a large building. Looking through my binoculars, I see the pureness of the white feathers, the elegance of the station the bird takes atop its sky-backed perch- A beautiful encounter I want to share with dad. I adjust the optics and hand them to him. A few seconds go by but he doesn’t say anything. Do you see the bird I ask? No, he replies. I help him adjust the glass and have him try again. After a few moments of searching, he indicates he has spotted the bird. He smiles in appreciation. I am not sure he can see the bird clearly if at all, his eyesight being poor. Yet he shares my praise of the rare and beautiful oracle above us.

I might like writing more about my last visits with dad. For now, I want to close my eyes and remember my associative feelings.

I am going for a walk now with our dogs, to pick up litter and reminisce. It’s a nice day for a walk.

In Tribute to Edmond H. Paquette 1929-2009

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Other personal stories and folktale postings:

Ø Letters from home: http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2012/12/letter-from-home.html

Ø At the drop of a spoon (Alzheimer’s): http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2011/10/at-drop-of-spoon.html

Ø Nothing to Waste (VT. folktale): http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2011/11/nothing-to-waste.html

Ø In Memoriam-Old Friend: http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2012/01/in-memoriam.html

Ø Intensive Care(3 mos. Preemie): http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2010/11/intensive-care.html

Ø Sharing Summer Vacation (3 act play): http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2011/09/sharing-summer-vacation.html

Ø VT man lost in Minn. : http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2011/02/vermont-man-lost-in-minnesota.html

Ø Six yr old asks-Do Cig butts count as litter?: http://litterwithastorytotell.blogspot.com/2012/11/cigarette-butts-do-they-count-as-litter.html

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Fathers Day gift to his son

A few years back shortly after my dad died I found I needed to walk and think or maybe more to not think. I walked along the ocean beach in Carlsbad California, barefoot. Not intending to go very far, I walked, and walked and walked. I began to wonder what city I was in, so headed up the cliffs to a park to find out. I than noticed my feet - naked feet were blistering and decided to start hobbling back on a narrow trail atop the cliffs overlooking the ocean. My shoe-less feet were really hurting, when I came upon a pair of tattered Gilligan Island type of canvas sneakers-just my size. Sometimes picking up litter pays dividends in ways not expected. Maybe they were a gift from Dad, him knowing how I would have my eye out for litter!

Happy Fathers Day Dad.

Bernie

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Walking Home - to Dad from Vermont - Tribute to my father

When I was young, I heard stories of walking miles to school and only after doing chores in the garden or around the house. I only had to walk less than one mile to get to school and my chores were minimal mainly consisting of keeping my room clean. In the middle of my career and raising a family, I walked a little more than one mile to catch a bus, which carried me another five miles to work. We did have a car- just not two cars. This lasted only a few years before we bought a second car.

I knew a man who drove his last car when his youngest son was born and did not drive or own a car for eighteen years. This man walked to work every day throughout the year, Monday through Friday and sometimes on Saturday. He walked in the rain, in the sun, in the snow and the hail, and he walked in the mud. He walked past freshly painted houses, and again as the paint dried, and walked by as the weather bleached and faded the paint, and he continued to walk past the houses as the paint slowly peeled from their sides as the days moved by. He walked to the grocery store and carried home the groceries in his Hercules-like arms. He walked wherever and whenever he was needed anywhere away from home.

If his family needed to go somewhere, they took the bus or in a few precious exceptions dipped into the grocery fund to pay for a cab ride. When his children wanted to go to the beach or to visit a friend they found no sympathy when they complained of the distance and time required. Any belly aching only brought back the stories of walking miles to school and the chores both before and after school.

Following this man from work to home was not walking, at least not by a child’s standard. Years of walking with purpose, with steadfast pace, had toned the man-racehorse for one pace and one pace only-F-A-S-T.

When one of his children met him at work, their adrenalin would flow while waiting for the shop whistle to blow. The whistle not only signified the end of the workday but also the beginning of the race home, the race to keep up with daddy. Sometimes he would carry them with one hand holding them up in the air, as little legs would run in the wind without touching ground. Those big strong hands and muscle-bound arms would twirl us around as he walked his stride unabated.

In his last days when the hospice people remarked how surprised they were that his heart was so strong, I remembered how he walked, and walked and walked for each of us, my brothers and sisters and my mom. Yes, he had a strong heart from years of walking. He walked for years because he had such a good, caring, and responsible heart.

I hope all dads find a way to demonstrate responsibility to their family and to their communities as an example to the next generation. Picking up a piece (of litter) every day is one way to leave footprints driven by a caring heart. Happy Father's day dad-may the streets where you now walk always be green and clean.