Page 32 - Marilyn

Memories of Dad

By Deanna Bates

Chocolate sodas. When the waves of guilt wash over me, that time,
I try to hold my breath by focusing on my memories of after- I listened, as only
noons spent with my father sharing chocolate sodas. an adolescent
can, for the un-
My Dad was the typical father of a child born in the 1950s. spoken stories of
He worked hard during the week, joining the family at din- my father’s youth.
ner. The main child rearing was left to my mother. Dad was
a quiet, controlled man who could silence you with a single As I swallowed
look. He preferred to talk through any conflicts that arose. creamy gulps of
He avoided confrontations and hated discord of any kind. frothy chocolate,
my heart heard
My father was a shadowy presence in my childhood. Always the loneliness of
there, but not quite connected. He fulfilled the typical role of a young boy on
a father of that era, quietly providing for his family before the his own. I came
age of child-centered parenting began. to understand
why the boy
Most of the time my childhood memories who rarely got
are of my Dad, instead of with him. I see letters became
the man who
him coming home at the end of the day signed for junk
(having left long before I awoke), chang- mail solicitations
to see a bulging
ing for supper and joining us at the dinner mailbox waiting

32 table. An average sized man, he seemed for him. I saw
the man with
imposing to me sitting at the head of the a closet full
dinner table. He would ask about school of shoes (that

and I would try to gain an approving nod all looked
the same to
by listing an academic accomplishment or me) as a boy
achievement for the day. After dinner, he allowed one
would usually disappear to the bedroom to single pair of
military boots
read the paper or watch T.V. So it was, the to call his
weekdays of my childhood passed. own. Most
of all, during
my chocolate
Ah, but occasionally there would be a weekend day that soda outings,
he would pause in his puttering and ask if I wanted to join I saw my Dad.
him for ice-cream. I would get butterflies in my stomach in Fate was not
excited anticipation of time with just my Dad. We always got kind to my fa-
chocolate ice-cream sodas and would talk to each other - ther. He was
connected through the soda straws. I felt special and under- diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in his 50s. He managed
stood during those afternoons. I still swallow past the lump the symptoms (trembling, rigidity, and confusion) well with
in my throat, feeling the warm memories of those times. medications for the first several years. Then the downs came
lower and faster as I watched helplessly. My mother traveled
As I grew into adolescence, the puzzle pieces of my father’s to get a break from her role as a caretaker, and I took on
life started to fit together through our ice-cream talks. Raised more and more responsibility for my Dad.
as the only son of privileged parents, he had a lonely up- There were good days of chocolate sodas and humorous
bringing. He learned to control normal childish tendencies memories of the days gone by. And there were dark days full
and behave as a gentleman. At 12, he was sent to a military of struggle and frustration. Through it all, my Dad remained
academy. During the WWII years, his parents were prepar- uncomplaining, a good soldier on a solitary watch of illness.
ing him to be a military officer. He learned many lessons As I watched the man shuffle and stumble, I reassured him
during those years at the academy. While I listened to tales that he was not alone – I was there for him.
of loyalty and the discipline that was instilled in him during
May/June 2008