In Loving Memory...

Our "long goodbye" is over.. My dear father passed away on October 31, 2014 at the age of 87 years, two months, and five days. Born in a small town in western New York, he was the third of four children whose parents were the town doctor and a former schoolteacher. A "blessed" baby according to the caption written on the back of this photo taken by his mother that pictures him at just nine weeks old.

Dad in November 1927: nine weeks old

You would never know it from looking at this angelic looking boy, but Dad was quite an impish child--very energetic, hard to make sit still. I'm sure he and his buddies roamed the streets of his small town cooking up all sorts of mischief!

Dad at age 8 or 9 in the mid-1930s

And he was a bit of a rebel, too. The first time my mom met him in high school she thought he was cocky and a bit full of himself... And I'm sure he was--he was a handsome football star, president of his class, and class salutatorian. Mom and Dad dated a bit, but before too long, went their separate ways and off to colleges far, far apart.

 Dad in 1945--age 18

After a few years, however, they met up again and this time, my mom saw him differently--she saw the hardworking, determined young man he had grown into. I think his time in the Army probably had a lot to do with that along with his decision to attend medical school and become a doctor like his father.

1946--Home on leave from the Army

Dad and mom were married in the summer of 1953 in my mother's nearby New York hometown, and honeymooned in Maine.  Little did they know then that their union would produce four children and nine grandchildren!

Reading a congratulatory telegram before 

setting off on their honeymoon--July 1953

What can you say about a man who could fix just about anything? From a broken toy to a broken car to a broken body. My father was a surgeon (on the right in the photo below) and, through the years, saved countless lives and made even more lives easier by "fixing" ailing bodies. I was always so proud and amazed by his profession. Me, who can't stand the sight, or even the thought, of blood, had a dad who went into that operating room each and every day and mended tears, removed diseased organs, and installed pacemakers to extend lives. Yes, I was constantly in awe of his intelligence and self-assured manner.

Steady hands

I don't have a lot of memories of Dad "doing stuff" with us kids. That can be attributed to not only his demanding profession but also, simply, to what being a father was like back in the 1950s and 60s. But, I do know that his family meant more to him than anything. My mother said he absolutely doted on me being the first child and that when I was born he insisted on waking me up and playing with me when he returned home way after I'd been put to bed for the night. I'll bet this was one of those nights!
 

Me at nine weeks with my proud papa

I remember the giant snow storms we used to get in Buffalo, New York when I was growing up in the late 1950s. My dad used to pile the snow right up the front stairs of our apartment to make a small sled run for me and my brother (much to the landlady's dismay!)

Buffalo, NY winter 1959

Another vivid memory happened in high school when a  friend and I had sewn these soft pastel colored dresses with little puffy sleeves and empire waists--very sweet and very much the style of the early 70s. Mine was the palest pink and hers was mint green. The first thing my dad said to me as I modeled the dress for him and mom was, "Carol, you look like a little girl in that dress!" Well, I immediately burst into tears and ran into the other room crying. I was 16 and the last thing I wanted to look like was a "little girl". He came rushing after me, enveloped me in a big bear hug, and said he was so, so sorry and that the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt my feelings.

As the years passed, Dad and Mom were blessed with nine grandchildren and, oh, how Dad (and Mom!) loved each and every one.  His round face simply lit up each time he saw one of them. He was quite overweight when they were babies and he loved just letting them sleep peacefully on that pillowy stomach of his. Below are my three sons back in 1988 when the youngest was just a few weeks old and sound asleep, thumb in his mouth, on Dad's big tummy. All nine of his grandchildren rested there at one time or another...

 He just lit up each time he saw his grandchildren!

Dad actually did more "stuff" with his grandchildren than he did with his four children because he had more of that elusive thing called "time." He'd take them for long rides in his ancient car (Big Blue), walk with them up to the railroad tracks to squish pennies under the wheels of trains that passed by, and take them up to his "club" (just a cottage really where the local men gathered on Monday evenings for steak, beer, and card-playing) to gather jugs of the fresh spring water. And they loved him back--no one could get them laughing harder than their Papa could! They brought such joy to his life and he to theirs.

Dad worked very hard until his retirement at age 62 in 1989 and then he and mom spent 7 months of each year relaxing in the Florida sunshine. Those were such good years for them... carefree days of setting their own schedules, walking the beach, and marveling at the sunsets each evening from their oceanfront balcony.

Daytona Beach, Florida sunset

Mom is so thankful that they had those years together because within 15 or 20 years, Dad began to change. He became unsure of himself and a bit paranoid. He stopped reading books and doing his daily crossword puzzle. He began to have trouble with simple math. He developed an almost "vacant" look in his eyes. And then four years ago, the hallucinations began and we finally had a diagnosis:  Lewy Body Dementia, the second most common form of dementia after Alzheimer's.

 Dad being inducted into his

 high school "Hall of Fame" 2009

It wasn't long before mom knew she couldn't keep caring for him on her own in Florida and so they moved back to New York State year-round to be nearer family. As the next year passed, he became more and more unpredictable--his hallucinations increased. They would often involve water (a river running down the hallway or a glass spilling over with liquid), animals romping across the balcony, or small children hiding under the bed. Nothing scary, thank goodness... But, he was recognizing fewer and fewer people and having more and more trouble putting words together. And then the wandering began and we knew the time had come to move him into a dementia facility in early 2013. The day we moved him was probably one of the hardest of all our lives... for the first time in so, so many years, Dad was living apart from Mom. For the next 20 months he spent his life within the walls of dementia units with others suffering the same or even worse fates.

Christmas 2012

The last time I saw Dad awake was in early October when my two sisters and I went over to see him. Thankfully, he was in a good mood--almost playful. He didn't make much sense when he talked, but he seemed content and happy to see us. All of a sudden at one point in our "conversation," he grabbed my hands, started rubbing them, looked into my eyes with a hint of recognition, and exclaimed, "You little sweetheart, you--I love you so much!" My eyes welled up with tears and I felt that I had just been given the greatest gift in the world. I doubt that he even knew who I was, but just to hear those words from him again, meant so very much.  It was the last time I would ever see those warm, brown eyes of his...

The funeral on November 4th brought many tales from relatives, old neighbors, and former teachers of how he stitched them up "on the kitchen table" or saved someone's life. And even more stories of how he was always so kind to everyone in town, regardless of their race, religion, profession, or status in life. For Dad it was always an even playing field... This is the biggest lesson I learned from him--always be kind and treat others as you hope others will treat you. It was so wonderful to see the many people gathered to remember and celebrate  his life. That is life in a small town--everyone knows everyone else and there is a sense of community not often seen in city life or in the suburbs. 

One last ride... When the funeral ended we took dad on one last ride through the quiet streets of his beloved hometown--the town where he had spent nearly his entire life... The hearse led the way down Main Street where he had ridden his bike and shopped for penny candy with childhood buddies. It passed the street where he grew up and maintained his medical office in a house located right next to the very library that inspired me, his oldest daughter, to become a librarian.

On past the stately brown Presbyterian church where he had sung carols each Christmas Eve and given me away in marriage on a warm, sunny July day 37 years ago.

The procession made a right turn and crept to a halt in front of the wonderful white house where he and mom raised their four children and spent 52 of their 61 wedded years. The house was a constant work in progress for dad--he was always tinkering away in the barn or basement to fix this or that. And there was that wonderful wrap-around porch where the family would gather to observe parades on Memorial Day or to simply sit in cozy wicker chairs and watch the world go by...

 Home

Heading up the street, the funeral procession passed over the railroad tracks where he and his grandchildren had placed pennies and waited for them to be squished flat by oncoming trains. I still recall the joyous voices of my sons as they raced down the street to show me what had become of the pennies that Dad patiently helped them search for after the train had flattened them.

Another right turn and then a left  took the procession past Dodge Creek where dad, as a boy, surely spent many hours happily wading in the knee-deep water and attempting to catch slippery minnows in his small hands. That same shallow creek swelled to a raging river and flooded his hometown twice in his lifetime.

And then, a final left turn up the curving hill and into the most peaceful and beautiful cemetery that I know... Dad's final resting place. My father now lies in rest overlooking the town that meant so much to him...with those beautiful hills in the distance, surrounded by tall trees and crisp autumn air. His mind is now whole again, free of the fog of dementia that imprisoned him for the past few years.

 Chestnut Hill Cemetery

We knew this day would come, and in some ways, we welcomed it. Dad is no longer struggling through the tangled web of dementia. He is free and at peace... He would have hated knowing how he was living the past five or so years--absolutely hated it. He was such a proud man and would have despaired at seeing himself just "existing" at a toddler-like level. And yet, I can't help but weep, and cry, and sometimes sob, for not only his loss, but for the way he lived these past few years. You see, Mom's and Dad's favorite quote, and the one they already have etched on their gravestone, is Robert Browning's "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be." How sad that they didn't get to realize that "best is yet to be" in their final years together.

At peace at last

My dad was a character in so many ways: a loving husband, son, brother, father, surgeon, rose gardener, sousaphone player, music lover, history lover, bread baker, pickle maker, avid reader, handyman, car tinkerer, limerick reciter. He loved to make people laugh and smile...

I know you've got a whole new audience to entertain now, Papa... And, oh, how that makes your oldest daughter smile!

Me and dad: Thanksgiving 2011

Goodbye my dear Papa...

 I'll miss you ever so much...