Editor’s note: Be it known that AI helped tie the beginning of this article to the ending.
Walking on the Rio Grande Trail, I watched a young father cheer his child up the climbing wall at the Youth Art Park. I stopped, caught off guard by a sudden ache, familiar emptiness, and a feeling of loss. Suddenly, my father was with me again, reaching for me, bending his knees as I took his hands and climbed — his thighs, his chest, his shoulders — until I stood atop my world, his quiet strength beneath me for support. I was in my 50s by the time I realized all the ways he had stood beneath me, guiding me into and through adulthood.
His heart attack when I was in my mid-30s surprised and frightened me. We rarely think of our parents as vulnerable — until something happens to remind us. Until then, I never thought about him being a reservoir from which I drew strength. I picked up my pen and wrote him a long letter, and so began our correspondence that nurtured me when I was unable to visit.
“Dad, I am scared for you and feel very far away. I try to put myself in your shoes, active and very much alive one minute, thinking heart attacks are for old people. It is hard for me to think of you as anything but strong and healthy. Are you scared?”
“Niki, my feeling is that there are still a few chapters left, and I think that they will be interesting and perhaps exciting. Your letter truly moved me to tears. No, I was not scared at the time, but I now have an awareness that I have crossed the line that defines the start of old age, and that I, who is not more than 20 years old, am trapped in an old man’s body.”
In another letter, he wrote, “There are very few years in a parent’s life when you can genuinely be friends with your child. Your child is no longer dependent, nor are you dependent on them.” From that day forward I felt that we talked as equals and yet, he was and, though long dead, still is my mentor.
My father managed our family’s financial affairs, while Mom received and managed the household budget. The four children had to negotiate when we wanted anything extra. At age 10, I practiced and mentally rehearsed negotiating for a new pair of shoes. “Don’t sound defiant; don’t put your hands on your hips.” Dad was sitting in his favorite chair. I quietly said, “I need saddle shoes to make my outfit complete.”
“No, Niki, you want saddle shoes. There is a difference.” Young as I was, I understood. He would provide for my needs; my wants, I had to earn. I went to work in my aunt’s store and got my shoes.
In high school, I did my homework at the dining room table, close to my father, who would read in the living room and be available to answer my questions. My mother was playing cards with friends at the kitchen table and discussing what they wanted for their children. “Happiness,” my mother said. My father arose from his chair and entered the kitchen. “That’s a terrible thing to wish for your children,” he said. “Wish that your children are discontent so that they’ll struggle to make the world better.”
Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer shortly before his 80th birthday. We (four children, spouses and grandchildren) planned a party at his house in upstate New York. Mom told us that he was depressed, so we decided to cheer him up by sending him one birthday present a day for the 80 leading up to his birthday. We each took 20 days and didn’t discuss our gifts with one another.
When we arrived for the celebration, our 80 gifts adorned the living room. There were poems, paintings, copies of stories he read to us when we were young, songs we sang together when he was a folk singer and a framed New York Times photo of all of us with our guitars, protesting the closure of Washington Square to “beatnik” singers. There were narratives about what we did with money he loaned us (mostly downpayments on first homes), a wizard statue for him to request a miracle, photographs of family outings, of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. But the best gift, in my not-so-humble opinion, was the t-shirt I made for him with a picture of myself and the inscription, “Dad’s Favorite.”
I was, of course, one of four, and not the favorite. I remain forever his daughter. Thirty years after his death, that t-shirt is in my dresser while his internalized voice echoes daily throughout my life.
Like the child at the climbing wall, we’ve all stood on precipices, on the edge of something daunting, hoping for a hand to steady us. When it’s there, reaching up with quiet strength like my father’s, it’s no small thing. It stays with us. Happy Father’s Day, and thank you, Dad — for everything.
Mature Content is a monthly feature from Age-Friendly Carbondale.