This weekend I went to the ‘pre-game’ festivities for my husband’s 55th high school reunion. We attended different schools, but over the years I had met many of his classmates. For the most part, though, I forgot more than I remembered. Considering it has been five decades and these weren’t my friends, I thought I did pretty well.
Pride in my memory, however, was short lived. The very next day, I asked my sister:
“Is dad’s birthday the seventh or the eighth of October?”
“It is the seventeenth,” she answered.
I was mortified. Actually, I was ashamed. Yes, dad passed over fifteen years ago, but time shouldn’t have dimmed the memory of something as simple as his birthday. It took me a day or two to realize tat forgetting isn't a bad thing, in fact it is my thing. I am notorious for missing my son’s birthday, for forgetting the day we are supposed to leave for vacation, for not knowing the date I first met my husband (April 10, 1969). However, I do have a memory super-power: I remember my dad’s life as surely as if it were my own.
Dad came from a tiny town in Kansas. He was one of thirteen children. He told us that during the depression, when he was seven years old, he was sent with the other kids to a neighboring farm to pick watermelons. I know that his small town came together to help him pay for medical school. It wasn’t enough, so he worked bussing tables for a fraternity of rich boys. He was never bitter about things, not hard work, not other people being rich. Life was the work that moved you forward, and as long as you were not going backward it was all good.
I remember dad talking about dating my mother. Neither of them had any money, so their dates were walks in Forest Park, game evenings with the young men and women at the boarding house.
When I was very little, he established a fledgling medical practice only to lose it when he was drafted during the Korean war. By the time his service was over there were three small children, a pregnant wife, and a need for income. He started another practice. As an OB/GYN he delivered hundreds of babies. It didn’t matter what time those babies came into the world, he was there. He took us to church. He bought us corsages on Easter. He could be tough and exacting, but now I know why: my dad had a responsibility to six children and a wife he adored. He took this responsibility very seriously and we were his partners in making a good life happen.
His children were his pride and joy. When I published my first book he went to every bookstore, found it, turned my cover out and relegated E.M. Forster to spine-out. When I was sixteen, I won a contest to become the queen of a church event. This is our picture. I think I look like him. I remember that he always treated me like a lady.
He was a good dad. He was a good doctor. He was true to his church and his family. He wouldn’t have minded that I forgot his birthday, because I remembered who he was. I remember the sound of his voice, the way he cleared his throat before he said something important, how he gave my mother the cherry off his ice-cream sundae because he knew it made her happy. I haven’t forgotten any of the really important things about him. I never will. Happy birthday dad.
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