| by Dr. Jeffrey Lant Author's program note. It is 3:07 a.m. here in the East. It is not so much that I cannot sleep. Rather, it's that I don't want to. I am thinking about my father as I often do. He is undoubtedly asleep now, has gotten safely through another day and will awake in due course to the promise of another. In other words, he is being well taken care of, and I don't need to worry, the Number One Son in Massachusetts; he in California. But I do worry... "Jeffrey, let me ask you..." He called me the other day, with that note of concern I've come to know and which bites me so. "Jeffrey let me ask you..." and so it started. Another chip to the father-son relationship which defined and guided us for so many years, now as ancient as the hills. Things between us, once well defined and wary, are changing now; changing, changing... we neither of us like it, but the realities of living always pulverize our mere wishes... and because we are living, we must still live, no matter how painful that may be. And it often is... He asks. "Jeffrey, you've never had a house have you?" "No, Dad, I never did." "You've always lived in an apartment, haven't you?" "Yes, Dad, I have." "You like it, don't you?" "Yes, Dad, I do." "Why's that?" "Well, for openers I don't have to take out the garbage... or plant the flowers... or paint the fence... " And the list goes on. "You used to hate doing those things, didn't you?" "Yes, Dad, every minute, every single one. I wanted to read. You wanted me to wash the windows." There is more than a little bit of asperity, accusation and unresolved irritation in my voice. I am 65, it all happened a half century ago and more; it shouldn't matter, but it does. Memory makes the long ago the active and unresolved, still on my agenda of things compelling attention. I might wish it doesn't matter, but it does. "I do not plant or reap." Now the benefits of apartment living pour forth. I discover I am defending my choices, as children of any age feel compelled to do from time to time. To live the life I want takes teams of people taking care of me. I am used to this and rely on them to do the necessary. This is how the privileged classes of history have lived; it is how I always wanted to live; it is how I live; it is how I want him to live; it is how he should live in this his too fast dwindling of days. But he is of a different time and place, a time of self-reliance, where if you wanted warmth in winter, you chopped fire wood and so warmed yourself twice. I hated this work... and I hated all such things... things that obstructed the life I wanted; the life waiting for me, beckoning me, insinuating itself into every thought. "I am what you want, what you must have," and I couldn't wait to seize it. The myriad versions of chopping wood were important, but they were never imperative, like the dream that enthralled me. And thus there were problems and a battle that waxed and waned, but never stopped. However he is not criticizing, judging, he is seeking something perhaps only I can give: confirmation that he has done the right thing, for with assisted living, without responsibilities, comes an avalanche of doubts, uncertainties, and the kinds of anxieties which force one to sit bolt upright in dead of night... and wonder... "Jeffrey, I don't like not having a home anymore." But he does have a home. It's in a wonderful facility that looks like a college campus or place on a golf course. He and Miss Ellie, his wife, did not rush their choice. They looked at the full range of possibilities, moved with due deliberation, not haste. Visited, revisited, discussed, revisited. There was no rush about it, though it was apparent to both a decision must be made and made while they were both entirely able to make it. He recalls each house he has ever owned. He is remembering now and my role is clear. I must hear what he says, completely... and I must pledge (though he doesn't say so) to remember. And so a chant begins; of houses built or bought; houses turned into homes and profits; a lifetime of patient acquisition and certain return. "I have always made money on every house we ever lived in." And he recites them now, not to brag, but so that he is sure I know and will remember. My memory is tenacious; he knows that, and so the litany begins... from 4906 Woodward Avenue, which he built with his own hands (and partly mine)... His eyes are closed now and as he recalls, he recites; my eyes are closed, too, and I am remembering with him... and these, his memories of being a good father, chary of his resources, patiently awaiting the results he foresaw and planned for, are clear, poignant, bittersweet. And triumphant. For he wants me to know, and to sear into my mind that he made money enough for his family, enough for himself and Miss Ellie so they would burden no one, and something for the next generation, too. He was proud, as he had the right to be; not arrogant. He knew what he was due... and knew that I would give it, full measure. We who had often engaged in combat and dispute fully understood each word now, each recollection, each and every nuance, delivered with sureness and finality... for on this subject there was nothing more to say... and we were both glad he had done so, so well, every word apt, every description complete and accurate. He was tired now. So was I. It is often said that as parents and children age they reverse roles. But this is not entirely true. Instead a situation infinitely more complex and difficult emerges; a situation where the parent may remain the parent as well as the child and where the child may be in an instant not just one but both, thereby dramatically increasing the possibilities for confusion; things clear to one, misunderstood by the other. It would be easier, far easier, if a simple role reversal took place, clear to each, but this is not the way it is for either party. And so, before the darkness falls, we need to learn, again who we are, who they are, what they need and must have, what we have that we may give and give still more. In short, we must at their end begin again, new roles to learn and urgent, too, for the darkness is nigh and there is much to learn and do before the end. Thus one of the most important, revealing and timely conversations of my life ended; we were weary and needed rest. The meeting, by phone, ended as easily as a sigh. We had done what needed to be done. But I had one more thing to do, one more thing to listen to, to ponder. Bruce Springsteen's 1982 evocation "My Father's House." And I went to a search engine to play it. I urge you to find it now... and ready yourself for a melody and lyrics which cut deep and place an unrelenting memory in you. ""Last night I dreamed that I was a child... I was trying to make it home... before the darkness falls I ran with my heart pounding down that broken path... I broke through the trees and there in the night My father's house stood shining hard and bright the branches and brambles tore my clothes and scratched my arms But I ran till I fell shaking in his arms." Now I can do as much for him... and must. |
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