My Dad: Another Parent, Another Promise

A while back, one of my commenters pointed out that there are worse things than living on the edge of poverty. That reminded me of the story I wrote several entries ago about my dad and me, and how he would show me exactly how the money was handled and where it went. And all sorts of memories have been tumbling into my mind--new and old, alike. It has been two weeks of confusion, joy, and pain. But my dad clamors to be heard, so I write more. This is unedited stream of consciousness today because I want to quiet at least ONE of the cacophonous voices in my head!

Ostensibly, so many talks began around money...

When Dad finally got ahead, back in 1969, it was because he collected a pension  in early retirement from the State and then started a new career in Education Administration as the Registrar of a local university. I think his example is another reason I have never been able to subscribe much to the idea that it's too late to start fresh after fifty. Even when he retired as Registrar at 67, he became an administrative consultant to the President of the university. He felt change was usually a good thing, not bad.

My Parents and Their Idea of Wealth
He and my mom faced potential poverty all the time. Sometimes they dipped into the wrong side of that line, but when they were financially secure, what did they do? Turn around and start helping other people when they could. Dad said, "Money is only as good as what you do with it. We have been helped along the way, so it's our turn to help others as we were."

They befriended a waitress at a local restaurant, helping her and her son as they could. Those two were with us for five Christmases, and Dad paid for her education at a local community college, then got her into the university on a scholarship two years later.  We had strays at my parents' open house on Christmas Eve nights and we never quite knew what sort of person would appear next. I think they helped about a dozen people before they died.

I remember he asked my opinion about that. He wondered whether I thought he should give the money to the charities that helped people and explained to me that he and mom were a little selfish in wanting to do it this way. "We get to see the effect. But do you think we waste our money?"

I was shocked that he asked my opinion. He said, "Why wouldn't I? You have been through more than the others have and are more mature than any 32 year old I've known. You work in non-profits." That was when I felt like a grown up. I had not thought my parents had noticed much of anything about what my life was really like, or how I had coped with having three operations while I raised two stepchildren and tried to develop an opening for a career. However, I still did not care for the question.

I felt that it was entirely up to them and, in fact,  I told him that if this was being selfish, then the world would be better off with a whole lot of selfish people like them. I did ask, "Daddy, I only worry about your getting into trouble spending the money. I know how tough things were when we were growing up."

He looked troubled. "We won't spend away your inheritance." I remember tearing up that he could think that's what I meant.

"DADDY. It's your money! I don't care if you leave us not one dime, don't you know that?"
He had the strangest look on his face, and rare tears were there, making his eyes shine dark, like Jacky's. "How is it that you and your sister have such different perspectives than your brothers? They talk about how they had nothing. You and your sister talk about how your mother gave up her comforts for all of you."

I think the boys never bothered to look; I don't know why. They saw the flaws, as did we all. They just didn't want to see the rest, I guess. Jack wanted to "out-Daddy Daddy" and deliberately went into education. He was mad when he was dying because he would never finish his book and he wanted to beat Dad at that. I suspect being boys in that family was harder in some ways. When my friend dated Jim (pre-memories, mind you) she bought t-shirts for all three: purple, with fancy white printing that said "the Father" "The Son" "The Holy Ghost." Funny. Each one knew which was which and they were PROUD of them; they were proud of their own egos.

Still, it bothered me that the boys never could see the sacrifices both parents made, just for us.

Spinning Gold Into Love
We talked about many things that day. He was was driving me to Boston for one of my "blood-lettings," as we called them. I used to get massive hematomas on my back after surgeries and would go to Boston every three days for a couple of weeks, so that the doctor could aspirate the surgical site and draw out all the old blood. It kept me from getting infections. My husband didn't like to take time off from work for my illness. It wasted too much time, he said. But Dad would sit there and hold my hand, and would grow very pale at the sight of the enormous needle and tube into which blood was literally sucked from the swelling.

We both knew those trips saved my life. It cemented a unique bond between us, as well.

My parents had no desire to be wealthy. Dad wanted Mom to get some things for herself, yes, when he changed jobs. When she'd finished her binge, though, they wanted mostly to "give back." Friends had helped them sometimes and all the friends had said was, "When times get better, don't pay us back. Just turn around and do it for someone else."

I realize that this was the prototype for how my friends and I work as well. There is about five thousand dollars total that seems to float around my circle of 10-15 women--sometimes in a thousand here and there, and sometimes the whole wad.  My family and friends who celebrated Christmas Eve together would pick the person with the roughest year for the "Spoiling target"for the year. We would give them an outrageously large Christmas then and spoil them rotten. I learned from my parents that THIS was the REAL fun of the season, and of life.

Spinning Pain Into Love As Well
Why am I writing this tonight? It has been a difficult couple of weeks for me. I do not write that much about my back. I have had bizarre and terrifying experiences in the 1-2 month hospital stays. Lately, I have dreamed about the worst ones. And we are now in the season when I lost both parents. The final weeks of their lives. Mom died on February 16, and Dad died on the 26th. January was full of poignance. And two worst hospital stays were in the winter. I may write about those; possibly not.

But as I think of my parents and remember things to put in my book, I remember Daddy as well. We had an unusual relationship, I think. I was lucky enough to hear both of them talk about their own fears, their disappointments in themselves, not each other, and to hear about parts of their lives I am not sure most kids of my generation got to share.

My father was a womanizer; those of you who have followed my blog a couple of years know that already. He was famous for his business trips... We knew. Well. I knew. The boys remained blind until it was out in the open; denial was always their preference. Most mornings my dad sang one of two songs in the shower:  Many Brave Hearts Are Asleep In the Deep or Ah Sweet Mystery of Life at Last I've Found You.  On February 1st, when I was giving him some ice chips because eating was so awful for him, he took my hand.

"You know about the women, Jetty. Your mother could have left me. She should have, really. But don't think I did not love your mother. I DID. I DO.  But you are too much like me. Don't learn everything the hard way."

I said, "Daddy. I have made big mistakes, but..."

"You are not happy with Mark. I see it all the time. He is not right for you. I know it. I just know it. Jetty,  what are you going to do? Oh..." He was so agitated then, all I could do was stroke his forehead and the still thick and silky, silver hair.

He was quiet, but his cheeks were wet and his eyes were glossy, and almost black. "Why did it have to take me DYING Gawddamnit? Why couldn't I have listened to the Gawdamned WORDS, instead of my own voice? 'For tis love and love alone the world is seeking.' Jetty. Promise me you will hear those words. 'Tis the answer, 'tis the end and all of living.'  I learned it all too late! Don't you, Jetty. Don't you."

Ah! Sweet Mystery Of Life
Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life
At last,I've found you.
Ah! At last I know the secret of it all.
For the longing, seeking, striving, waiting, yearning,
The burning hopes,
The joy and idle tears that fall.

For 'tis love and love alone,
The world is seeking.
And 'tis love and love alone,
That can repay.
'Tis the answer, 'tis the end and all of living,
For it is love alone that rules for aye.

(LAST STANZA REPEATED AND CLOSES WITH);
For it is love alone

 I hear his basso profundo still; or, as I preferred to call it, his basso buffoono. I see his face, the tears. I feel his hands on my face, and see him looking for an answer. I am not sure he knew who I was in that searching.

All I said was, "I know, Daddy. I know."

He smiled and nodded, let go of my face and he slept.

And the Question and the Answer Were the Same
He and my mother, both. In the dying, turning to me to give me something all the while begging for a promise. The telling. The listening. To me. I was the writer. Of course it was to me.

Regardless of what came from moving lips, the sound from their souls was simple: love.

What more could any parents leave?