My sister, my dad and me.
My sister and I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home and I could immediately feel the pull. From the past. That yard. We played ball, red rover (yes, I’m that old) flowers were watered, weeds pulled, blankets spread under the silver maple. Dogs, cats, and neighbors shared that spot.
It’s been 3 full days of Tug of War between my heart and my head. Over the past, the present and the future.
The past reminded me that if my dad wasn’t in the front yard he could be found out back in the garden or working in the garage. There was nothing he couldn’t fix. He built our house single handed (other than the fieldstone fireplace).
I ignored the pull and entered the house. My dad met us at the door. He looked pretty good. He waited in the doorway instead of helping unload the car. The tug came again. He is walking with a cane. Physically he is gaining.
We moved through the Livingroom, dining room and into the sunroom where my mother waited for us. After I married, this room was added and is now the main living area. It’s a delightful window filled room.
Through the windows a small flower area is just outside. And bird feeders galore. All different colors and sizes. My dad has also added branches to the bird feeders so the birds have a resting place. Within the last few years he has attached pieces of white cloth on the ends of the branches because his eyesight is so poor. It keeps him from walking into the branches.
As I moved closer to the windows my mind pictures the absent swing set, sandbox, garden, dog pen, strawberry patch and clothesline. We would put sheets over the lines, weigh the edges with bricks and create a perfect tent. The rope was getting jerked again.
My mom left her recliner to greet us. She spends a lot of time in her chair due to physical issues.
Last year my dad received a diagnosis that required hospice to come in to help. Since then he’s improved physically to the point of perhaps canceling hospice.
Now, mentally, that’s the hard part.
My dad, the man in my life from the beginning that could fix anything, was strong and oh so smart. He was a tool and die engineer and he created a die that saved General Motors millions of dollars – for real, no exaggeration!
His handiwork can be enjoyed all over the house.
When he put in a small bathroom he built a shower stall. No need for tiling the walls. He used linoleum. And it looks and works amazing! After 40 some years it’s in great shape.
The easy part of being home is watching him walk around with just a cane after needing a walker a short time ago. The rope has slacked. His click, click, click of his cane warns you he’s nearby and if there is any chance of bugging you, be ready. He carries on conversation and jokes around so much you tell him it’s time for him to go find mom – poor mom.
It’s great . . .until it isn’t. The pull comes again.
Within minutes of conversation about being at breakfast that morning he will ask. “What day is it?” We tell him. He’s quiet a minute. Then he asks, “Are we going anywhere today?” We tell him we just came home from breakfast. “Really? Where did we go?” We tell him and then within a minute he asks, “What day is it?” and we go through the whole process again and again.
And, he’s back. Normal conversation. It’s times like this that the past tries to invade the present. I have to fight to keep the tears that come with it. I mentally shove the memory and the sadness back. Then the thought of what the future may hold knocks on the door of my brain. And once again I fight the rope of reality and what might be.
Sometimes just plain fear slithers on the rope. How bad is this going to be? How are we going to handle it? When is too much too much?
Dad is not a sitter. I get that from him. I have to be doing, moving, creating. Sitting is tolerable for only so long. He asks to walk back to the woods that line the property. It’s a beautiful sunny, but very cold day with some snow on the ground. After finding some boots and both of us bundling up we head out. The snow is that crunchy snow. It’s hard and crusty and will hold a certain amount of weight and then it breaks and your foot falls the few inches.
I’m a little concerned that he will be able to handle the walk with his cane, yet he pushes forward and we limit telling him “you can’t.” We save that to things that would cause serious consequences.
As we walk through the yard he tells me while pointing to places in the yard with his cane, “this was all wheat fields when we moved in. Those trees there I planted and this group over here came up on their own.” I asked him if the gravel pit that is off to one side of the property was here when he started building. “Yes but no other houses were nearby.” He was one of the first to build. We talk a little about living in the basement while he finished the main floor all while he was working full time at Fisher Body.
We’re heading back towards the house and he notices an iris plant that is still green. For a minute he thinks it’s a new flower but then realizes it’s just the plant from last year. The snow isn’t deep enough to cover it up completely.
Coming around the side of the garage he asks if we can go check the mailbox at the end of the driveway. I mention to him that we’ve had the mailbox moved up by the door so he can get the mail when the weather is bad. “Yeah, that’s right but we should check the other just in case.”
That makes sense to me too, so we amble down the driveway. He has quite a nice mailbox holder for his and the neighbor’s mailbox to reside. He made it and he talks about it. Another great example of my dad’s creativeness.
On the way back up we stop by a huge pine tree. He said this one came up by itself and he remembers it being “this high” he shows me with his fingers. He has wooden beams around the base and tree towers above us. That tree is over 65 years old. The rope tugs as I remember picking up pinecones and throwing them at each other, riding our bike under the branches and complaining because barefooting would be a picky, sticky adventure.
The sun is shining and my dad pauses to look around. Mentioning another tree on the other side of the lawn. The rope jerks hard. Real hard.
How many more times will I be able to stand like this with my daddy remembering? How long until that never happens again? How long until the door of the house will be closed the last time and the keys handed over to someone else. How much longer until this is not my home?
The rope is pulled around my heart and it takes all I have to unwrap it. It’s so tight my feet don’t move and the words I should be sharing with my dad are stuck in my throat. The wave of tears is held back barely and threaten to wash my face.
It takes so much physicality to continue to walk with the rope tangled around my feet.
Eventually we are back in the house and he’s snacking on nuts in his chair with a cup of coffee. I have to do something. The circulation is being cut off from my heart. So, I do what I always do. I get busy.
After three days of Tug of War it’s time to return home. Honestly, I’m more than ready. While I’m at my parents all the “stuff” from the farm and home is waiting and sometimes intrudes with a phone call or text.
You would think the rope would fall off and be left behind as I get closer to home. But it’s there tugging at me to go back and try to enjoy some more time with them.
And it’s not until the safety of home that the dam of tears overflow. And it can take days before it is shorn up again. Partly because there are battles here on the farm to be fought that take the same muscles that were used during the Tug of War I just left.
It’s sadly funny that when we are young we think life will be easier when we’re older. Now, it seems unfair that life gets harder in so many ways. Sometimes I think that is the way it is so we start looking forward to heaven and all that waits for us there.
As hard as it is I pray I have a long time to participate in this Tug of War of life. Because of the extremely blessed past, I have a tough game to play. For that I am grateful.
My favorite picture - my dad has the full attention of all my sons.
