I am fortunate to still have both my parents, who have been married for 66 years. Mom is 89 and Dad just turned 95.
Back in November, finishing up Dad’s birthday cake at my sister’s large dining room table, we reminisced about our childhoods. Many of my sister’s memories are from the years before I was even born, so listening to her stories is like hearing a story of a mythical land I’ve never visited. Because I was born when she was 12, I wasn’t around for one of her favorite stories about Dad: the time he heroically snuck back into their old house, which was being demolished, to retrieve a light fixture from her old bedroom. In her memory, she cried at the thought of that beautiful light fixture getting smashed into the rubble of the old house, and Dad, hating to see his daughter cry, snuck into the house, climbed on a chair, unscrewed the light fixture from the ceiling, and brought it back to her as she cheered. In my sister’s telling, you can practically see my Dad’s superman cape billowing behind him as he trekked through rubble, through dusty shafts of light to climb precariously to the second story of the house which was already half destroyed.
My Dad, a humble man by nature, chuckles at this retelling and says, “Well, I don’t know if it was quite that dangerous.”
Over many years, our memories are clouded by time, and polished by the exaggerated lens of our childhood perceptions. Maybe my sister isn’t recalling all the details exactly as they were, but she is remembering how Dad made her feel at that moment. Decades later, it stands out to her as an illustration of our father’s love — and his desire to make us happy.
By the time I came along, Dad was the parent who always did the grocery shopping for his hungry family, while my Mom was forever in the kitchen, canning tomatoes from her garden and baking bread and birthday cakes.
Going to the store with Dad was my favorite thing, mostly because these were the times I got him all to myself. Besides, he always looked so dapper, wearing a fedora with a smart feather tucked in the brim. He wore a suit and tie to work every day, so I was proud to walk into the store with him, where he was greeted by name at the deli counter by the gum-chewing cashier. From Dad, I learned important lessons about evaluating the proper ripeness of fruit, assessing a “good deal” on beef and poultry, and learning that store brands are typically less expensive but just as good as name brands. Except for coffee. Never buy off-brand coffee — on some things, you just don’t skimp.
Grocery shopping with Dad was a fun adventure. He made the list of items my mother requested, written in the order of the store, like a treasure map. The unlisted impulse buys thrilled me the most: the buy-one-get-one sale of ice cream, or the occasional box of sugary cereal with a prize inside. Sometimes the man in the baked goods department would hand me a butter cookie with a round hole in the middle. I would wear my cookie ring, taking careful bites around the perimeter as we continued through the aisles.
By the time we were in line at the till, our cart was too heavy for me to push, and Dad would have to help me steer it when it was our turn to check out.
Those seconds unloading our cart’s contents onto the conveyor belt were the best of all. If I played my cards right, if I glanced at the candy bars lined up in a row right there on the shelf, Dad would notice. I never had to beg. Looking back, Dad probably wanted a candybar just as much as I did, but he always waited a beat. Then the question: “Should we share a treat?” My answer was always yes. I would choose one item, something to be easily divided: Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were the best, but Twix or Kit Kat or Almond Joy also conveniently came in twos.
Whatever the treat was, it had to be consumed in the car on the way home and we carefully discarded the wrappers before going into the house, where we innocently handed Mom the ingredients for her healthy meals: whole wheat flour, brown rice, and lots of vegetables.
My sister’s memory of the light fixture retrieval; my memory of clandestine candy bars on shopping excursions: These are small moments with my father, but they loom large in our minds. Maybe they are clouded by time, polished by the exaggerated lens of our childhood perceptions. What we remember is how those small moments made us feel: loved by our Dad, possibly wearing a fedora or a superman cape, who simply wanted us to be happy. Thanks, Dad.
