Rediscovering my father through his words

My dad began his writing career at age 88.

He started with his autobiography: how he was a caddy for Mayor Curley of Boston and a cadet at Roxbury Latin; how a beautiful lady came into the grocery where he worked and he fell instantly in love; how he was assigned to the first Signal Service Company and took part in the D-Day invasion of France at Omaha Beach; how he brokered candy for a living and involved himself in faith and community for pleasure; how he endured the death of my mother to cancer and moved to Florida to live out his days.

When he was 90, his health diminished and I moved him north to a Massachusetts nursing home. Each day was defined by what he wrote. When I visited, he’d be propped up in his wheelchair, squared off to his computer, his fingers stiff like wooden sticks. But he’d be smiling and typing out a story: The Boy Warrior, Dime Novel Adventure, Robot Transports.

“Where do my ideas come from?” he’d ask, his blue eyes twinkling.

Some were dreams, some memoir, some sprang from TV programs like Superman and The Lone Ranger. Most reflected his life: a boy grows up in poverty and overcomes obstacles to become well-respected in the community. Like my dad, his characters marry, father two successful children, work hard, and pass on their legacy. His mantra: “Make it a purpose that your passage be that of honesty, caring, accomplishment and favorable deeds to others.”

Since I am a freelance writer and a retired English teacher, I encouraged him to insert details and develop plot. I added punctuation and corrected spelling. Mostly, however, he wanted praise. “Fascinating characters,” I’d say, or “Perfect setting.” He’d beam and print out the pages, giving copies to anyone who walked by, hobbled by, or wheel-chaired by. He went through a lot of ink.

When I was putting Fixodent on his dentures, he’d tell me about the interview with Moses or Noah or Eve that he was writing. When I shaved him, he’d chatter about the misadventures of Yiskor Dall. When I changed his socks so they didn’t cut off his circulation, he talked about Queen Iva Lottadough’s greed and how she should emulate Robin Hood. When he lay in the emergency room after another episode of congestive heart failure, he conjured up a fantastic planet called Eos. Even as his eyes blurred, he wrote My Thoughts on Saving the Earth.

Two years have passed since his death. Why didn’t it dawn on me that he’d be gone by the end of a paragraph, that he’d stop dialysis voluntarily and die a dignified death at 92?

I look through his stories and rediscover a man of courage and honor, integrity and grit. His stories span from interviews of biblical characters to World War II experiences, to opinions about Congress and how to improve the world. I didn’t realize then that my father had so much talent and could weave a tale out of a wisp of air. I saw writing as a pastime that improved his daily life and sometimes burdened mine.

I have six three-ringed binders containing my father’s hopes, his dreams, how he regarded himself: “I am wheat because it’s adaptable to all kinds of weather. It’s nourishing and sustainable and easy to grow.”

I have an incredible opportunity, to keep my father alive. As he wrote: “With a good imagination, you can conquer distance and time. With the right combination, you can be anywhere in space.”

I keep this in mind when I read his stories to my grandchildren — and when they and I write new stories together: The Pumpkin Head Planet, Bird Picture Book, Happy Families, Elmo Meets Curious George.

Our next story: Great-Grandpa Ed and Me.

… and the words flow on.

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Posted by Ruth Weiner on Jun 12 2014. Filed under Featured Content, Opinion. Both comments and pings are currently closed.