Old Enough to Handle It
May. 21st, 2009 11:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewdayToday was my dad's 94th birthday. When I called him this evening he was apparently out, most likely with the family of a step-daughter who lives nearby. Which I guess is a good thing, that he has someplace to go, someone to celebrate with.
That his happiness now depends on the kindness others, who are virtual strangers to me, is not because his biological children failed to try or didn't care. My sisters and I had made the offers and done the legwork to find accomodations with or near our own families when the time came for him to move into assisted living. My son said that he'd visit him every week, along with our grandson, if he moved here. And I would've stopped by to see him every day, as I did when my mother-in-law was living out her final years near my wife and me.
But he was never one to leave the hometown, except for the obligatory business trip or family vacation. Wouldn't even leave for a much-coveted division accountancy when he was nearing the end of his career. It was his, he'd earned it the hard way, won it by acclamation of his fellow employees, which was no small feat in such a large company.
Instead, he took an early-out and tutored at a local elementary school with his second wife, for a dozen years or so, and then volunteered with hospice for another dozen after she died. So he's had a full life, by any measure, and managed to live nearly all of it within twenty miles of the depression-era farm where he grew up.
(A notable exception was the two years that he spent overseas, during WWII, with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. He's often told me the story of that lonely day in London when he was notified of my birth back in the States.)
So happy birthday, dad. I guess this is turnabout: you not being there for my first, and regretting it, and my not being there, for what will likely be one of your last, and regretting it. Still, it was your choice, this time around, and sometimes just having that choice is the best gift of all. Especially when the count runs long, as it has for you. And this time, I'm quite sure that we're both old enough to handle it...
That his happiness now depends on the kindness others, who are virtual strangers to me, is not because his biological children failed to try or didn't care. My sisters and I had made the offers and done the legwork to find accomodations with or near our own families when the time came for him to move into assisted living. My son said that he'd visit him every week, along with our grandson, if he moved here. And I would've stopped by to see him every day, as I did when my mother-in-law was living out her final years near my wife and me.
But he was never one to leave the hometown, except for the obligatory business trip or family vacation. Wouldn't even leave for a much-coveted division accountancy when he was nearing the end of his career. It was his, he'd earned it the hard way, won it by acclamation of his fellow employees, which was no small feat in such a large company.
Instead, he took an early-out and tutored at a local elementary school with his second wife, for a dozen years or so, and then volunteered with hospice for another dozen after she died. So he's had a full life, by any measure, and managed to live nearly all of it within twenty miles of the depression-era farm where he grew up.
(A notable exception was the two years that he spent overseas, during WWII, with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. He's often told me the story of that lonely day in London when he was notified of my birth back in the States.)
So happy birthday, dad. I guess this is turnabout: you not being there for my first, and regretting it, and my not being there, for what will likely be one of your last, and regretting it. Still, it was your choice, this time around, and sometimes just having that choice is the best gift of all. Especially when the count runs long, as it has for you. And this time, I'm quite sure that we're both old enough to handle it...
