Down memory lane...or rather, down Hiawatha Avenue

I received an email from Baskin Robbins today. Sometime last year I had signed both my mom and my dad up for free treats on their birthdays. Since my dad never had his own email account I had it forwarded to mine and then I was going to send it to him. Until now I had totally forgotten about the birthday deal.

I was sort of confused when I read the subject line, "A birthday cake offer with your name on it" because my birthday is in August. Then my heart just broke when I opened the email and saw the "Hi Gary, it's only one month until your birthday!" at the top.

My dad would be turning 65 on October 5th.



He absolutely loved cake and ice cream (hence, Baskin Robbins). A half gallon of his favorite New York Vanilla would never last beyond a couple days with him in the house! But who needs birthday fanfare when you are experiencing your salvation firsthand and enjoying freedom from the limitations of human senses. Ice cream - what's that! But the rest of his family (who also possess his frequent craving for all things cold, creamy, and sweet) will just have to enjoy a party treat in honor of, if nothing else, his retirement.

Because, truly, what better place to retire than Heaven!

I can't believe we're coming up on the five-month anniversary of my dad's death. Doesn't seem possible or real. I don't really know how grieving is any different for me now than it was then, but the pain of his loss periodically stings. Most of time I think of him right before bed. My days are busy and guess I really don't have much time to stop and think until I'm under the covers.

The most random times his memory finds its way into my consciousness is actually while I'm on the phone at work! The only explanation for this is that a lot of my phone "spiel" consists of memorized pieces of information, and often I find myself daydreaming when I'm reciting the legal disclaimer or offering a parent a piece of counsel. (I know, not very professional, but I have to repeat this stuff several times a day and it gets tedious.)

A few of these times when I get a flash of my dad's memory I'll start to choke up and my voice begins to waver. It knocks me back to reality and I have to intentionally shake the thought from my head so I can continue with the parent before I break into an outright sob over the phone.

Back at the beginning of February, when I first got the call about my dad's cancer, I was only into the first couple hours of my work day. I prayed the phone would not ring because I was beyond side-tracked at that point. But, of course, it rang. I got about five minutes into the call when I realized I could not handle normal tasks. What?? My dad has cancer and this lady is worried about finding child care?! I think I choked out something to the poor, innocent woman on the other end something to the effect of, "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I just found out my dad has cancer."

Silence.

"Hello?"

Click.

Since the thought of my dad comes to me right before bed, I finally realized that this must be the reason he seems to turn up in most of my dreams. I've had them all. In some of them, he is well, and some of them, he is very ill. And I am always extremely protective of him no matter what. In one dream I had to take care of him in a care center, and after leaving him for just a moment, the nurses told me that he had died. I frantically ran to his room, and when I sat with him a while he came back to life. Or, at least, the nurses were wrong thinking he had died. It was as if I had to be in his presence to sustain him.

The dreams never freak me out. I actually feel sort of comforted to wake up after a dream he is in. As if I just spent some quality time with my dad. But the dreams also evoke a somewhat heavy heart in knowning that he is not here.

At times I look back on my childhood and it seems I hardly even got to know him. He did work long hours and then he of course slept a lot whenever he was home. I don't blame him for that! I can't look back in regret because there is absolutely nothing I could have done differently that would have changed how things transpired. However, the past does provide huge motivation to really invest in the people I care about.



After my dad's memorial service Jeromy and I, and my brother Justin took a drive around Minneapolis to hit up Bridgman's to share a serving my dad's favorite chocolate soda. And that meant the franchise in my dad's childhood neighborhood of Hiawatha Avenue. This made the experience all the more meaningful.
























Things have changed a LOT since the 40's and 50's! Although I had driven these roads hundreds of times, the events of the morning spent sharing stories of my dad's life sparked my imagination. I wondered, as I peered down stucco neighborhood blocks and searched barred storefronts, what it must have been like for him. Back when the crime rate was lower and elementary school boys were allowed to roam the streets carefree. I just wanted one more story. One more chance to hear my dad describing the summer antics of a boy and his friends growing up in South Minneapolis. I wanted to hear his voice and get impatient with the lengthy pauses between some of his words. I wanted him to vicariously go back to that simpler time of his life, days before the responsibility of paying bills and long hours driving a big rig competed for his time and attention.



He loved talking about his childhood. About a month before he died, I braved a cobweb-infested closet at my parents' house where I knew he always kept his shoebox of black-and-white photos from his life. Poor guy never got those photos in an album of any sort, and so most of the photos had long since curled and creased in some spots. I just knew it was now or never.
























We spent a good couple hours a day in that care center pouring through that old, ripped up shoebox. I would hold up a photo and say, "What's this one, Dad?" and he would take it from me, contemplate over it for a moment, and start his story with an enthusiastic, "Oh! That's...." (That's a good Minnesota "Oh" for all you other-staters.)
























Photo after photo, story after story. I cherish the memory of this special time with my dad, just the two of us. My only regret is that I didn't think to tape record these conversations. Dad probably would have been uncomfortable with the idea of being recorded, and I didn't bring it up because I didn't want him to think I thought he was going to die and that I wanted to capture his voice for a keepsake. I wanted him to focus on living each day and not think everyone was preparing for his death...although everyone was, and I'm sure he knew it. But we didn't want to dwell on any of it.
























I did hide one thing from my dad over the course of the shoebox project and his reminiscing. I separated the photos into two piles. One pile to go through again later, and one pile with which to compile for his memorial service slide show. I don't believe he caught on to my task, but honestly, everyone at his memorial service expressed how touching it was to see all those photos, that I knew he wouldn't have minded if he had known what I was doing.
























(Edit: Click on the photos for a larger view. A running joke with my dad was that he looked just like Theodore Cleaver ("The Beave") in many of his childhood photos, especially the one above. My dad liked to do voices, and whenever we would comment about his look-a-like, Dad would always come out with something like, "Oh, but gee, Dad..." or "on account o' Whitey and me...". I'll never forget that.)

I still wish with all my heart that I had taped him because as far as his stories go, I can hardly remember a one. I did, however, write a short description on the back of each photo, very lightly in pencil so as not to show through. I at least wanted to capture the identities of the individuals in each photo. That was my initial intention. The project took longer than I'd thought because I did not realize going through the box would evoke so many stories. There was a story attached to just about every photo, and I could never remember any of them enough to re-tell. And at best, I am a writer, not a storyteller. (And don't even let me try to tell a joke because I will forget the punchline, without fail!)
























Many of these stories reside with my aunt Bev, my dad's sister, but she can't pull out stories from his Navy experiences, except for what he's told her. I may just have to sit down with her someday (with a recorder!) and capture what stories of his I can. Although, I would still miss out on the faraway look in his eye as his mind would travel to the scene of a story. And, of course, when he'd offer his signature "tongue-and-cheek".



*****

Back on the highway after we'd had our fill (and boy, did we fill!), we accidentally missed an exit (oh the horror!) and ended up on an accidental sight-seeing tour of the city. Which made for a shutter-happy afternoon for your viewing pleasure! The next day Jeromy and I needed to catch our flight back to Maryland, and I decided to continue the merriment all the way to the airport. I so love shotgun!

I posted these on Facebook forever ago, but they are new for the blogsphere! I wanted to snap a picture of the house my dad grew up in off of Hiawatha, but I couldn't remember which street it was. I am actually headed back to Minnesota on the 7th of October, anticipating a much more joyous and less draining visit than the previous three have been. And no snow, to boot! (Oh Lord I pray!) You just may see Part 2 of the following slide show in another month or so. I'll try to get a shot of my dad's childhood street and maybe even his house.

So, here is our little adventure around the Minneapolis/St. Paul area:

















who doesn't hold their breath in the Lowry tunnel???