My Dad died 20 years ago out in Oregon, age 67. My Mom, thanks be, is still alive. So every Mother’s Day, indeed any time she or I chose, I can talk to Mom in person or on the phone. For the last 20 years, my conversations with Dad have had to be in my head.
Since Dad’s death, not a day has passed in my life that I have not remembered what Dad said or did, or thought about what Dad would have said or done about something that pleased or bothered me.
My last and best remembrance of Dad was when he was literally on
his deathbed. Only a third of his heart was still working, no by-pass surgery could fix him, so he was sent home to die. My brother and
his family, my wife and boy had already come to see Dad and gone
home. I had taken unpaid leave to stay with Dad until the end and
help Mom cope with Dad’s bed-ridden disability and impending death. One morning I awoke, as usual, to the smell of Mom’s coffee and bacon, and went to the kitchen. But before I could taste my first
sip of coffee, Mom said, “Your Dad wants to talk with you.” Dad was lying in their bed and told me to sit down.
DAD:
Son, what are you doing here?
ME: (knowing Dad would detest any mention of his
problems) Well, I think Mom needs my help...
DAD: Larry, you have a lovely wife, a fine son, a nice
house in a good place, a great job that you’re good
at—go back to them.
ME: But Dad...
DAD: (angrily, painfully raising himself up on his
elbows) What the hell do you think I raised you for?!
ME: (knowing Dad would detest any mention of his
problems) Well, I think Mom needs my help...
DAD: Larry, you have a lovely wife, a fine son, a nice
house in a good place, a great job that you’re good
at—go back to them.
ME: But Dad...
DAD: (angrily, painfully raising himself up on his
elbows) What the hell do you think I raised you for?!
Mom knew what Dad would say to me and agreed with
it—as always, they had ‘talked.’
Two days later, I was back with my beautiful, intelligent wife; my
bright good-humored son in our comfortable home in Oak Park (IL) and doing the job I adore [Professor of Anthropology (specialty:
Archaeology)]. Dad died in his sleep several weeks after I left.
As usual, Dad was right about the essentials—be a good spouse, parent, homeowner and worker.
Dad, I miss you so much. But know that the love of your life (Mom) still lives and one of your sons (my brother, Dale) watches over her. Your two sons have tried to do as well as you did at fatherhood and their jobs. Your bright adventuresome grandchildren would make
you proud. Now we, your sons, understand why you raised us...
every day.
Lawrence H. Keeley
(Doctorate: University of Oxford, U.K.)
Professor of Anthropology, University of Illinois
at Chicago.
© Oak Park Journal
published by Suburban Journals of Chicago Inc.
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