Liz had gone up to bed, leaving me on my own. This was my time of night, when I could take a moment to think about the end of another busy day. No television, no internet, no radio, no distractions -- just me and my thoughts. Time to relax, maybe read awhile and enjoy the quiet. In a week our two sons would be home from school to enjoy another Christmas.
I was sitting in the living room, enjoying the sweet, amber taste of a rum and ginger ale, when Bailey stirred in my lap. I gently scratched behind her ears and adjusted the afghan, telling her to relax. Instead of laying her head on my legs, however, she sat up and started to whine.
"Quiet, Bailey," I said, thinking she had heard someone walking past the house. "There's nobody's there."
I glanced out the window, past the glimmering lights of our Christmas tree, to confirm that there was no one outside. My eyes found nothing -- just the gentle drop of snow flakes drifting through the chilly night air.
After a moment of silence, Bailey lowered her head, then dropped to the floor. She had just left the room in search of some water, when a voice I hadn't heard in over 11 years spoke from the corner of the living room.
"Hello son," said the voice.
* * *
 |
A few years later, he married a woman from La Crosse and together raised a family of two boys and two girls. Despite wanting to find work in radio, he worked much of his early life as a bookkeeper until poor health forced him into commercial painting. When he wasn't crafting furniture in his workshop, he was hunting or fishing.
I don't have many memories of my dad as a child. Vague images of riding in a fishing boat, bouncing on an aluminum bench seat as we raced through cold September winds. We would go fishing at night for catfish in the backwaters of the Mississippi River, listening to the hiss of a gas lantern as fireflies and mosquitoes whizzed around our heads. And I can still smell the odor of cut wood and feel the crunch of sawdust beneath my feet while watching him plane a board in the basement workshop.
As a teenager, I remember telling him "no thanks" when he asked if I wanted to go deer hunting. My answer was in stark contrast to the interest I showed while waiting patiently at the kitchen window to see if there was anything tied to the top of his car. He was a hit in the neighborhood as the dad who would trap snapping turtles. I contributed to the novelty by inviting my friends over so they could watch him chop the head off with a quick strike of an ax.
As I got older, my interests turned to sports, which eventually took us in different directions.
I have a vivid memory of sitting in a darkened hospital room waiting for him to recover from surgery on a torn retina. His body looked damaged somehow, laying on that hospital bed. It was an image that would hold true when the news came later that he would not regain the sight in his damaged eye. And it would appear once again, a few years later, when he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease.
Despite these setbacks, I don't remember any complaints coming from him. I remember him as a quiet, religious man, comfortable in his own skin -- simply satisfied to provide a house and food for his growing family. Perhaps those conversations and concerns took place with my mom (away from my ears), while they lay in bed at night thinking of what lay ahead.
Years later -- too many considering his illness -- he closed his eyes to the world he knew. And left his son, now a grown man with a family of his own, to ponder what the future held.
* * *
"Hello son," said my father.
The shadows from the corner of the room, like gentle arms holding him in their embrace, opened slightly and I had the glimpse of a young man no more than 25 years old.
"Dad?" I asked, disbelief causing my hands to tremble slightly as I put down my drink. "Is that you?"
The shifting shadows revealed a man of above average height, with a strong face, peaceful eyes and thinning hair with a curl slightly off-center. "It is. It's good to see you again." His voice sounded different from the last time I had seen him, laying in his hospital bed, weak and in pain. It was strong, confident and wise.
"Why are you here?" I asked. "Am I dreaming?"
His young face continued to reflect the warm glow of the Christmas lights as he answered, "No, I'm here because I'm worried about you."
"Me? Why are you worried about me?" I asked.
"Because you are my son, and I want you to know that things are never as bad as they seem."
His words were spoken by someone who had found strength as a boy in his own self-reliance during the early years of The Great Depression. And fought through the fear of Japanese kamikaze pilots and endless days at sea to come home again. "I've been watching, and you have me wondering if you're going to be alright."
"I'm doing... ok." I willed my own voice to match the confident tone of my father's, but failed. "The election has me pretty worried about my sons and our future. But I'm... sure I'll get over it."
I paused as I tried to put into words what I meant. "I'm just having trouble feeling positive about the direction our country has taken. I see too many people looking toward Washington for help. It's almost like people can't do anything for themselves anymore. And even worse, they're tearing down many of the things that made America great -- like success, religion and freedom. You, of all people, should be understand my concern."
As I looked up, my father's image had lost some of its youthfulness, but none of its concern. "Well, you know I was always a Democrat -- your mother and I voted for FDR and Kennedy, because we always felt like they could take care of people in need. And during the 30's, 40's and 50's there were a lot of people in need."
"But wasn't it President Kennedy who said, 'Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country?' " I paused for a moment as his head nodded in agreement. "I don't hear the government asking people to help out. Instead all I hear about is raising taxes on the rich so others can get their fair share."
Dad hesitated as his eyes looked around the small room. They focused on the picture ornaments hanging from the Christmas tree, showing my sons, Matt and Sean when they were in school. Perhaps he was thinking back to an earlier time when he and his brothers would spend all day down at the river fishing and swimming on a warm summer day. His hand reached for the ornament showing Sean. His thoughtful eyes looked at the young boy wearing a baseball cap, glove in hand. Then he let is swing freely back and forth.
"Family has a way of making things different," he continued after a moment. "You have to worry about your children, your wife, your job -- and if you're lucky enough, you can find some time for yourself. I used to get away from it all by going fishing or hunting. When I had the time, I would work in the basement on something for the house."
"Let me suggest that you turn things around," Dad said. "Take care of your own business, and you will find that you will be taking care of others that you love."
Dad's mouth hardened as he continued, "America has always faced challenges that none of us thought she'd survive. But we did. When it was darkest during the 20's and 30's we found a way back. And there will will always be wars -- during my lifetime, we lost a lot of good people in the Pacific, Korea, Vietnam and even Kuwait. Sometimes you just have to have faith. As bad as it looks, this country has always found its way home. Now is no different, trust me."
My hand relaxed its grip on the chair's arm rest, and I said, "So, don't worry about others who are moving in another direction? Take care of my own, put on my public face and hang on to what's important to me and my family, knowing that there are STILL others like me?"
"That's the spirit!" he said with a smile. "Don't quit the fight -- keep working inside out, not outside in."
Inside out, not outside in. Focus on my own success, rather than letting others dictate what my success will be. Don't abandon my faith, my core beliefs and love of this great country.
The room became quiet, except for the muffled sound of a car engine idling outside on the street. Suddenly I said, "I've missed you dad." Taking a deep breath, I felt my throat tighten in anticipation of something held back for many years. "I wish we could have had more time to talk about things like this."
The chair creaked as Dad leaned back into the shadows. "We will, son. We will. Merry Christmas to you and Liz. Remember, I'm always here, all you have to do is ask."
As his image sank into the fabric of the chair and faded from my sight, I notice Bailey had somehow found her way back onto my lap, with her head nestled among the blanket, sleeping soundly. "Her, girl -- how did you... ?" My hand still held the half full glass of rum and ginger ale as time moved forward once again.
Outside, the snow was falling gently as the clock clicked to 9:49 p.m..
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