Christmas Memories

I deviate from my usual romp through history this week to bring to you a special piece from my past.  Christmas brings many happy memories to me and one very sad one.  It was on Christmas Eve a few years ago my father passed away at home.  The exact time I don't recall, but I remember people saying they were leaving mass that night and they felt he was gone.  It took me months to deal with the grief, but following is one of my favorite pieces.

Daddy Came Home Today

Daddy came home today, and I followed him out to the fields.  It’s harvest time and he’s picking corn.  My brother, Norman, and I walk behind the wagon picking up ears the corn picker misses.  When we get tired of walking we ride in the wagon and have corn fights throwing the ears at each other.   I’m five years younger than Norman so he doesn’t throw hard, and he mostly misses me.  I pull my coat tighter as the sun goes down and the sky turns orange and pink then black.  Daddy finally stops at the end of the field and sends me to the house before I fall asleep in the wagon and he has to carry me.

Daddy came home today.  He’s been to town and brought back a block of ice.  We load the car up with the ice, rock salt and our ice cream maker.  We’re going to the church social.  There’ll be preaching and homemade ice cream.  While the men turn the cranks on the ice cream buckets I play with other kids.  Daddy shows us where he found some baby snakes when he was digging behind the church yesterday.  We eat ice cream and watch martins swoop down to catch insects in the field behind the church.  It’s dark by the time we pack up the ice cream bucket and head home.  I think Mom makes the best ice cream.  Vanilla custard.  I wish there was more.

Daddy came home today, and we went to the garage after supper.  He’s working on great-grand-dad’s 1929 Model A, Ford.  It was held together with bailing wire and binder twine, and smelled horrible, like old gas, dirty gym clothes and wet dogs, all at once.  I pinched my nose when I was around it.  But Daddy took every piece apart, cleaned, painted, and put it back together.  It’s running now, and Daddy takes me and my sisters for a ride to town.  There are no seats except for the five-gallon bucket Daddy sits on to drive.  We kneel on the wooden floor to look out the windows.  I bet we got the only car with a real bucket for a seat.  Daddy moves two levers behind the steering wheel to make it run.  He calls one of them the spark.  “It runs like a sewing machine,” Daddy says.

Daddy came home today, and sat down to read Norman’s letter.  After finishing he took out a pen and paper and started a letter to send back.  Norman’s only been in Vietnam a few weeks, but I already miss him.  I’m frightened he won’t come back.  Beth’s brother was drafted and he isn’t coming back.  Someone ran over my dog and killed him.  And that boy I had a crush on in school died in a car accident.  Everything I care about gets hurt or dies.  Daddy wants me to write Norman a letter, but I can’t.  If I acknowledge how much I miss him, how much I love him, or even that he’s gone something will happen.  Something horrible.  So I only sign my name to his letter.  I know Daddy doesn’t understand.

Daddy came home today with the white sidewall tires we got in the Ozarks on the ’36 Chevy.  The ’36 sure looks fancy now, but there’s a lot to do before the parade and car show tomorrow.  My sisters and I vacuum, wash, and wax the ’36 and the Model A.  They have to be perfect, so I use a cloth and toothbrush to get the wax out of the cracks.  The next morning we load; coolers with our lunches and sodas, glass cleaner, wax and cloths in the cars.  Today I get to drive the ’36.  My Aunt Ruth rides with me while Mom and my sisters ride with Daddy in the Model A.  My palms are sweaty. The ’36 is a straight-shift and I’m nervous, but Daddy isn’t worried.  I hope I don’t have to stop on a grade.  I’m not good at starting a straight-shift on a grade.  I usually roll back before I get going.  I wonder why they put three peddles in the car when people only have two feet?

Daddy came home today and said it was cancer.  Prostrate.  He didn’t have much to say about it except that it’s gotten into the bone.  My doctor explained what to expect.  On average five years, some more, some less.  I’ll be strong.  I won’t cry.  He doesn’t need that.

Daddy came home today tired from the radiation treatments.  He sleeps till the grand-kids come over to go fishing with him in the pond out back.  We make plans; after his treatments this summer he’ll come to New York to see us.  We’ll go places like Woodstock and the Roosevelt Mansion, Cooperstown, and Belleayre Mountain.  Daddy loves the mountains.  There are many visits.

Daddy came home today not feeling well.  He’s having trouble walking.  I take him to the doctor.  The doctor says the cancer is pressing against the spinal cord.  To walk, he needs an operation.  They transfer him immediately to Indianapolis.  I wait at the Indianapolis hospital with my mom, brother, and sisters till three a.m. for the operation to end.  It seems funny the doctor doesn’t look at us when he explains how the surgery went.  Two weeks after the operation I have to go back to New York, but Daddy’s doing good in rehab.  His faith is strong.  He talks religion with anyone.  The young priest at the hospital says Daddy’s an inspiration.

Daddy came home today.  It’s a cold, rainy, December morning.  I sit silently in church, my nephew, John, beside me.  I’m not sure if I’m more comfort to him or he’s more comfort to me.  We sit, holding hands.  The Christian church is more modern than our Methodist church, more like a box inside with its low ceiling and clear windows.  It’s bigger than our church, and it’s full.  I’m glad Norman chose to have the service here.  The Christian preacher is giving his eulogy, the Methodist preacher is next.  There are people here we thought would never enter the Christian church.  Even now Daddy’s faith works.  As we sing our last song for him, “I Saw the Light”, sunbeams break through the dismal gray sky to shine down on the coffin.  It reminds me of God’s stairway.

Daddy came home today and is laid to rest in the town graveyard.  Norman finally breaks down at the graveside after the coffin is lowered.  He cries in my arms, and I find the comfort I’ve been hoping for.  From here Daddy can look out at the fields he farmed.  From here Daddy can see where he grew up and where he raised us.  From here he can see heaven and earth.

Daddy came home today.

Through my father passing away, I found peace that Christmas I might never have known.  God holds him in his hands.  May God be with you all through this holiday season and keep you safe.

Happy Holidays from my home to yours.