The Time Has Come to Post

I am sitting in a hotel room in Monee, IL., about 170 miles from home. My wife sent me an e-mail telling me to read my daughter's blog and my niece's blog. (http://www.khathryn.blogspot.com/ and http://www.expapmama.blogspot.com) They both write about the passing of my father, their grandfather.

Dad died on June 23rd. He was 96 years 1 month and 17 days old. I say old as it refers to chronological age only. It has only been the last 2 years that Dad seemed old. My mom is the youngest 91 year old I know. She is still sharp as a tack. Mom spends her time reading mystery novels. I am guessing she has read thousands over the years.

The folks have always been active. There was always someplace to go and something new to see. It kept them young. They were still driving the thousand miles out to visit us well into their eighties. Dad would drive and mom would navigate. Then when they left our house they would go on to Arkansas to visit my aunt Roselyn (Mom's brother's wife.) On the way home they would stop in Nunda, NY to visit with my aunt Martha and her family. During their visits I would usually take my kids and my dad to a ballgame. He was a big Yankees fan. Out here he had to settle for the Sox or the Cardinals (Wrigley field was too much hassle to get to - even though I'm a Cubs fan.).

We took the kids to Florida twice to visit them when they stayed in Cape Canaveral. They were still in their early 80's then and would wear the kids out walking on the beach or the jetty. We went back to Gloversville, NY to visit at least once a year the whole time the kids were growing up. Talk about culture shock. The kids would meet the never ending supply of aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends. I have a hard time getting all my cousin's names correct (I have 31).
I can't imagine what the kids thought of all this.

The sad part is that the only time I get to see my cousins now is at the passing of one of my aunts or uncles or cousins. While my wife and I were there when dad was failing we attended the funeral of my cousin Mark. A few days later we were burying my father. Mark died way to young after finally straightening out a tragic early life. My father's death was sad, but he had led a full and prosperous life.

He taught in a one room schoolhouse with a teaching certificate, started the first training center for retarded and handicapped adults in the area, inspected electronic parts at GE, sold boats, motors, carpets, appliances, returned to college in his early 50's evenings and summers until he finally got his degree at the age of 56. He taught high school level retarded kids during the last years of his career. It seems that everyone knew him and loved him.

If my math is correct Mom and Dad were married for 67 years. For the last 34 or so years they have been retired. Never apart unless one was in the hospital, and there was very little of that. They always had something to look forward to and it kept them young. They flew to Spain in their eighties for my niece Kate's wedding, they flew to Illinois in their late eighties for my son Jeff's wedding. When they finally quit driving I would go get them and bring them back to Illinois for a few weeks, then my son would drive them home. With this large a family their was always another event coming, a wedding, or a reunion or a birthday - and they were there for all of them.

Dad's hearing and vision had rapidly deteriorated the last couple of years. Since he couldn't see well or hear well he would get confused, but he always seemed to have plenty of lucid moments, right up 'til the end. He worried when mom was away at the store, or gone for her treatments. He would pace the halls until she returned. Now he can rest.

Mom is doing well. I call her about everyday, my brother Jim lives nearby and visits often, as do a few aunts and uncles. They stop by and take her to lunch or dinner or just to visit. But it can't seem the same after 67 years of marriage to be alone. But in this family you are never really alone.

Dad we will miss you, but we will never forget you.