The Journey Inward

This well worn picture has been my favorite for 50 years and it shows! It was taken in the front yard of my childhood home, mud brown cedar shakes on the side of the split level, with stone covering the bottom third of the house. It was not a stylish home, nor beautiful in any way, despite one whole wall composed of windows and soaring ceilings in the living room. It was of that time period, but not really updated as the decades marched on. Nonetheless, it was home to me, and I adored it.

My dad was in his mid 50’s when I was born, the same age I am now. When we would be out and about, strangers would stop us and comment to me, “Are you having a nice day with your grandpa?” which I found extremely confusing, as my granddad lived in Indiana and I only saw him once a year. I was in 3rd grade before it began to dawn on me that my dad’s age set us apart from most other kids my age. I didn’t love the way that felt.

When I was little, I adored my dad. He taught me to read with the comics section of the newspaper, with Sunday’s colored edition the pinnacle of our week. We shared a love of dogs, memorizing the breeds we read about and curating my porcelain dog collection. We both loved nature and animals and he read to me from National Geographic, sometimes side by side on the couch with our dog, Trixie, but more often than not, me on his lap in his reading chair. He would twirl my long blonde hair as we read. (Years later, as he sat reading in the chair alone, he would twirl imaginary hair up in the air.) He took me out for “worm walks” after it rained, both of us scouting out the superlatives: longest, fattest, quickest. He loved cars and I learned the makes and models of most on the road at that time. He would have me “jump” over state lines when we traveled, showing me our route on the big, foldable paper map. We learned basic sign language together.

As I got older, my dad’s age and his hearing (he was deaf in one ear and only had 15% hearing in the other) became a factor in our relationship. I was often embarrassed by how “old fashioned” he was, how formal his vocabulary was, how “unhip” he was. It was painful for him to put his hearing aides in and he visibly struggled when I would stand in front of him to say something. He would get terrible feedback and wince on the way to testing it out and finally hearing what I had to say (lots of pressure to make my words important!). Little by little, I troubled him less for contact. Little by little, he slipped into his own silent world, entering only when he chose to.

My dad walked me down the aisle when I was 24, despite painful back issues that had taken away his precious golf game, walks, and yardwork. He and my mom spent countless hours with my first two children, though by the second, he had descended into advanced Alzheimers. He passed away before my third was born, at the age of 86. He had lived an amazing life.

My mom passed away a year ago, and I find myself talking to her regularly. We had a complicated relationship, but it’s gotten deeper and more honest these days. I began to wonder why I didn’t ever try to talk to my dad. I can talk about my dad, just not to him. I can reel off all his amazing traits…brilliant, disciplined, ambitious, hard working, good sense of humor, full of integrity, honest, steady, predictable and the list goes on. But I can’t talk to him. I don’t even know where to begin.

What brings me the most clarity is writing, but my attempts at understanding this have failed. ‘Don’t push it,’ I thought. ‘It will come to you when it’s ready.’ It hasn’t. I’m blocked. He eludes me. I don’t know what to say to him. The world has changed so much. He would be appalled at so much of what he sees. Our shared profession of education would be unrecognizable to him now. Maybe I could start with my dogs and grown girls, both of which he would love.

And so I put out into the Universe that I would like to be in relationship with my dad today. I would like to “talk” to him and share how I’m doing…really doing. What I’m feeling…really feeling.

In the meantime, I’ll keep looking at our picture…my tiny hand in his large, capable, secure one.

Photo: NJ circa 1973. Photographer unknown