AT HOPE AND MAIN: MEMORIES OF DAD CAN NEVER DIE

Before my Dad died I often thought of just how that event would affect my life, many times. I guess you could say I'd prepared for it. For my entire life he'd had a heart condition, and the unspoken threat of him dying was there ever since I could remember. I didn't think I'd deal with it real well. Even though I'd mentally prepared for it, my Dad's death was still a shock when it happened. I really miss him. I'm ever so thankful for all the wonderful memories I have to replay in my mind. Every time I look back, I smile.

I can picture the basement now, with my oil paint-by-number set up on the easel; me, sitting up on a high stool to reach it; my Dad beside me. I was filling in those little shapes, one by one, with the appropriate, designated color. It was getting on my nerves.

The basement, or cellar, as he called it, was one of his favorite places in the house. The cellar housed his workbench, bookcases and treasures my mother otherwise called clutter. The treasures were tangible evidence of people, people who had died or moved away. Each item had a meaningful story, a tale that was attached to an owner, never to be lost as long as my father lived.

I wished my Dad would start talking, telling one of his stories, distract me from this landscape paint-by-number I was struggling with. I was hoping that he could tell. My Dad was insightful like that. I resented having to fill in these little shapes of color just where they said. I could picture it being a different way. A way I thought was better. I thought (at age seven) that oil painting was going to make me feel like a real artist, but instead it was giving me a headache. I kept waiting for the excitement of creativity to come over me like it did when I drew something really good, but it didn't happen. I gathered up the courage to say to my Dad, "do I really have to do it this way?" True to his character, he hesitated for what seemed like an eternity; I figured he was gearing up for "the lecture mode," when out came those two magical letters, "no." I was totally taken by surprise. Suddenly a big headache had gone away and was replaced with the taste of freedom. When I pulled my brush across the lines and made my own path of color, I was released. The excitement and anticipation of creation were back. My Dad knew when to be flexible.

At about that time he began to talk of his mother, a subject that was for the most part, taboo. I knew he didn't talk of her often because it hurt him to know she was just a memory in his world. "My mom used to paint with oils and such," he said. He brought out this blue and white tin with a picture of people, horses and dogs embossed on it, (hunting foxes or something) and gave it to me. It was the tin his Mom had kept her oil paints in. I still have it to this day, and it's become one of my treasures.

It was on this day my whole world had changed. I didn't realize it until years later and the memory had been buried for what seemed like ever. I'd found my niche in life, and my Dad, with his support, had given me permission to persevere at something I enjoyed. I still don't know what was more appealing at the time, breaking the rules or expressing oneself. A combination of both still gives me sheer pleasure.

As I grew older, my Dad and I grew apart. My desire for independence made it so that I really disliked being around him, or my Mother, for that matter. However, he would not accept that. Somehow, he talked me into going surf fishing with him. I was about 15 and never got up before 11 a.m. if I didn't absolutely have to. He'd said he'd wake me up early, but it never occurred to me that would be before five a.m. This must be illegal, I thought. I've been tricked. Oh well, too early to verbalize on any level. I got dressed and poured my body into the car. It was the crack of dawn and the fish were biting. The sunrise was not spectacular, it would be a cloudy day. We drove down to the beach and my Dad put on his radio station, I think it was just to torture me, maybe it was payback time. I never liked his music, till now. Sometimes he'd play a little rock n' roll. If a song came on that he liked, forget about it, he'd almost dance at the wheel. How embarrassing. Anyway, we got to the beach. I couldn't believe there were that many people there. It was freezing cold. I mean this was still winter. It was March or so. There were men dressed in waders, (rubber fishing pants) wading up to their thighs in cold ocean water at five a.m. Why, is the biggest question that comes to mind. I jollied myself through this fishing trip. He might make me stay longer if I didn't pretend I was having fun. Needless to say, the trip was uneventful. We didn't catch any fish, so we didn't stay long. Other people did though. I guess it was kind of neat in a way. I'd never seen anybody fishing at the shore where I thought people only swam. Fishing never really appealed to me as a sport I'd actually partake in, but I do like to watch bassmasters on TV now, for some reason.

Some of the things that my Dad enjoyed during his life have attached themselves to me, since his death. There's listening to classical music, opera, watching fishing and a fascination with old cars. The enjoyment that I get from these new things in my life were acquired, kind of the way osmosis takes place. I imagine that being exposed was the key to the door that unlocked these new fascinations in life. However, the fact that they even occurred is beyond my capability of understanding. There must have been a magic number or series of consequences that allowed my brain to accept new variables. I suppose that it could be something in the genes. I can see that part of my character that enjoys the same things he did, is coming through, and to me it's just odd. However, I am enjoying it. Learning to appreciate new things makes life interesting.

I could go on and on, but this commentary has to end some time. Dads the world over, provide important roles in their kids' lives in ways they don't even know about. My Dad explained a lot of the gray areas in life just by being himself and for that I am truly grateful.