October Dreamin' -- Don't stop now

(Originally posted on May 27. 2013)

Hey, it’s okay. It’s allowed. If you’ve given up on the idea, perhaps it’s time to try again. Go ahead and dream your dreams. It’s good for you and fun too.

Recently, as I was writing my Family Matters story, I found myself deep in the “dreaming” business. The story follows three generations of the Padgett family as they struggle to find the elusive place where their individual, sometimes conflicting visions of the future can blend into a common dream. It is clear from the beginning that not everyone will get everything they want. In the course of their seeking there is bound to be discord and the need for compromise. Sounds a lot like real life, doesn’t it?

For two hundred seventy pages the frustrated Padgett grandparents, the family’s October element, deal with radically differing visions of what retirement ought to be, while their daughter tries her best to save a relationship torn apart by another set of conflicting dreams. Meanwhile the granddaughter, longing for a return to the laissez-faire freedom of her Los Angeles roots, struggles to imagine a future for herself in small-town Tanner. At every turn it seems that someone’s dream is in danger of being stepped on.

I call them “dreams”---those enticing hints of the future we long to have for ourselves. If we nurture them properly and allow them to play out, those idealized visions can help us be the person we want to be and live the life we want to live. I suppose most folks understand how important dreams are. In the beginning, when we first set out to find our place in the world, what else did we have but dreams? But now the question is---is there a place for dreaming in our October Years, when it sometimes feels like we are used up and out of possibilities? If someone is taking a poll on the subject, put me down as a loud “Yes.”

Like you perhaps, I’ve had a few ill-defined “want to’s” bouncing around in my head for as long as I can remember. But it was only a few years ago, during what I like to think of as the September of my life, that I found the nerve and motivation to double down on my personal “dream thing”---telling stories about my Tanner friends and their October dreams.

Each of us grows up with a uniquely personal vision of what-can-be for us. Sometimes that vision is hazy, hard to make out. Sometimes it is as clear as daylight. And even as we shape those images they are also shaping us. We are both the cause and the result of our dreams. After all, we spend a lifetime painting our own personal mind-picture of the person we are. Though we rarely allow anyone else to see the whole of that intimate portrait our dreams, the ones that remind us of “who we want to be,” are constantly at work on that mental canvas---redrawing, refining, and clarifying the “me” we view through the lens of our personal dreams.

We October types have been at this long enough to realize that integrating the mental images which our dreams produce with the untidy facts of real life can be difficult at any age. Perhaps you remember how hard that was as a teenager. I do. How could I have ever entertained those silly pie-in-the-sky fantasies---of doing the things I dreamed of doing, of becoming this or that, of some special “her” liking the likes of me? You think I’d have learned my lesson back then. 

Yet here I am, late in life, still playing those silly mind games---of October dreaming and telling my stories. And I’m pretty sure that I’m not the only one trying to live out my “want-tos.” In the face of October reality the “why” we keep dreaming may be found in boredom, isolation, and frustration---or perhaps disappointment with our earlier efforts. Whatever the reason most of us are inclined to wander back to that familiar mind space from time to time---telling ourselves that we ought to know better---yet still seeking the undeniable comfort of our dreams.

Of course, along the way there will be detours and disappointment, times when we step back to ask ourselves why we have not become the person we had hoped to be. Yet in the face of those shortcomings we keep dreaming---because we must. That was true in our formative years, in adulthood, and now in our October Years. As always we are a work-in-process---constantly bumping heads with reality, even as we continue to lean on what I call dreams. 

In Family Matters the Padgett family is forced to face their dreams---the ones that are pulling them in very different directions. (That happens sometimes, doesn’t it?) In the course of their journey there are moments when the common ground they seek appears to be out of reach. But they are first and foremost a family. Their individual dreams require a recognition of that “familyness,” even when it means reshaping their own motivating visions. For them, just as it is for you and me, it is all about the often frustrating blend of family, dreams, and compromise. 

Fractured Families -- Today and Yesterday

Of course it's been like that forever---sons and daughters grow up, spread their wings, and leave the nest to seek a life of their own. By the time we reach our October years we understand that. And we know too that often as not their leaving is a bittersweet moment---weighing the excitement of their hopeful beginnings against our own sense of loss.

I suppose that ambivalence is to be expected. After all, we raise our children with the implied understanding that one day they will strike out on their own. If necessary we can cite biblical injunctions to justify their departure. It is that reality that makes preparing our offspring to go off on their own one of our most important parental roles.

It's happened in our family, and probably yours too---that day when we watched our children or other family and friends preparing to take the next step, leaving for some other part of the country. Though we had mixed feelings about their going, we knew that moment had been waiting for us for a very long time. Those partings happen often in today's mobile society, where families are apt to be spread all over  the place.

In most cases the "leavers" depart in good spirits, excited by fresh and hopeful possibilities---a new life chapter to be lived out, new chances to "become." In that light how can we, the ones left behind, begrudge their willingness to take a chance? Still, though we would never stand in the way of their growing and becoming, there is probably a part of us that resists their leaving---at least a little bit.

In a very real sense they are a part of whom we are. In ways we often fail to understand we may have depended on their presence to make our life complete. Though we have no right or inclination to hold them back, we can't help but wish they would stay, or at least not move so far away. Those are the urges that separation produces. I suppose they are as old as mankind.

Of course, in our world of interstate highways and on-time airlines that parting need not be a permanent thing. There will be  opportunities for periodic reunions. Additionally, with today's connecting technology the sting of enforced separation has been softened. The internet and wireless communication, in all their many forms, has made staying in touch with separated family easier and more immediate.

But now I ask you to pause for a moment to shift gears, to gather those thoughts of family partings and come with me to a another time, when leaving the nest was apt to mean something very different.

You see, for days Roma and I have tracked her OregonTrail ancestors over flat, cornfield lined Nebraska highways and crooked, dusty Wyoming backroads---up and down, from the broad Platte River plain to the Continental Divide. We have visited impressive interpretive centers and hiked along riverside trails---seeing first hand the challenges those pioneers endured. My Lord, we even woke up one morning to an early September snow.

Though it has been a satisfying and eventful journey, at some point along the way I found myself dwelling on a unexpected series of melancholy thoughts, October questions I have never seen anyone else address---a sad fact that guidebooks and documentary videos seem to ignore.

Think of it this way. For just about every brave and daring Oregon Trail pioneer family that sold off most everything they owned to raise the hundreds  of dollars their "Oregon dream" would cost, there were family and friends, the ones remaining behind, who waited to say their good-byes as the hopeful travelers left. In a real sense the very core of the emigrants' limited world had gathered to see them off. (Those were 1848 or 9 dollars---which meant many families were too poor to take advantage of the promise of a new start in Oregon.)

There were times, of course, when the departing travelers left no one behind, when the family was remained intact. One of Roma's ancestors joined a wagon train made up entirely of more than 300 members of their Baptist church. The congregation emigrated en masse. And surely there were times when parents and even grandparents, perhaps too old to be undertaking such a venture, joined the overland company simply to avoid being left behind. 

Still, more often than not families were destined to be separated---some leaving, some staying behind. When that happened each of those parties could expect to live the rest of their lives on opposite sides of the Continental Divide.

For many of those left behind that emigration separation was not an entirely new experience. Only a generation or two earlier they had perhaps made a similar, if shorter, journey over the Appalachians to the OhioValley and beyond. That too had been a time of parting trauma, of leaving home for good.

For the Oregon Trail pioneers that parting was framed by the all-too-likely reality that they and the family members who remained at home would never see each other again. After all, the 1840s and 1850s (pre-railroad times) were not a time of mass trans-continental travel. 

The odds of parents, who stayed to tend a subsistence-level farm in mid-America, ever seeing the son, daughter, or sibling who had moved half a continent away to the far-off reaches of a mysterious place called Oregon were slim indeed. In most cases from that time of parting their relationship would have to be sustained by little more than fond memories and long letters. It would be an expensive, painfully slow, and often unsatisfying means of communication. But it was the best there was.

Think about that for a moment. How would you deal with that sort of parting---watching a son or daughter, a brother or sister, ride off to a new life that in all likelihood would never again include you? In the name of creating a new, more promising life they were leaving you and their own past behind. It was the only way. And for those left behind? The more I think about them the more I realize that there were two very different sets of heros taking part in that "leaving" drama. 

So here I am, dwelling on a harsh and very permanent kind of parting---the sort few of us can get our minds around. Take a moment  to imagine that your son or daughter is standing in the doorway, suitcase in hand, preparing to leave you---forever. From that moment on your only contact will be in the form of long letters from far away. The moment they turn their back on you for the last time your relationship will be a matter of memories and words on paper.

Of course those wagon train pioneers, the ones who made the long trek, endured a hard and dangerous journey. Theirs was the stuff of legends---the story of brave men and women, many of whom did not live to see the promised land. Largely because of their efforts our country now stretches from sea to sea. In a very real sense it was their willingness to leave their families, friends, and the life they knew that made their success possible. 

Still, in a way I did not expect to find, many of us October types can understand that those brave pioneers were not the only ones to pay the price of separation.

October Magic -- or so it seems to me

I can't make my way out of a straight jacket. Truth is, I sometimes struggle to get a shirt on and buttoned right. I don't do card tricks and I've never sawed anyone in half---at least not on purpose. But in the course of the last two or three days I have been reminded that something as simple as the first few notes of a long unheard song can literally transport me to a different time and place. That strikes me as a form of October magic.

The two of us went driving---from Oregon to Kansas---and are now ready to follow what remains of the Oregon Trail back to Oregon City. It is a long-awaited trip that was set aside last year when my few steps up a ladder put me in the hospital. This year, however, I am good to go, so we are off to retrace the journey Roma's ancestors endured on their way to Oregon. (My family, being the practical ones we are, waited until the railroads were up and running.)

Among other things I intended to set my modest blogging efforts aside for a couple weeks, to concentrate on seeing the western half of our country from the road instead of the sky. I was quite  surprised to find that it took just one day for an unexpected aspect of modern-day sightseeing to reveal what seemed to me an October insight worth exploring.

There is nothing like a long trip over straight and sterile interstate highways to renew old acquaintances---friendships that had not crossed my mind in a very long time. You see, to help pass the hours we listened to The Fabulous Fifties---an eight-disc set of CDs that OPB had gifted us in return for a pledge---classic tunes from that well-remembered time. There we were, driving down the highway, listening to old friends, probably the same ones you knew in the March and April years of your life. 

If you are a pop music person (not everyone is) that is quite a list of friends. Perry Como, Nat King Cole, The Four Aces, Four Lads, Fats Domino, Frankie Laine, Guy Mitchell, Johnny Ray---and on and on. Everyone has their own favorites. I had to chuckle a bit when I found Les Baxter's name on the play list. He's the one who nearly got  me fired from my DJ job on the college radio station when I introduced him as Lex Bastard.

But now, as I listened to those songs and the soaked up the memories they evoked, I was struck by their inexplicable power to connect me to my past. What is there about music---which in one sense is nothing more than melodic noise---that grabs us the way it does? What allows the ethereal reality of it to remain in some seldom-visited corner of our mind for decades? Yet the unexpected sound of a few introductory notes can unleash a flood of powerful emotions and warm recollections---hints of the very real (and oh so youthful) persons we were then, living out very real experiences. How can those connections remain after all that time? What magic is at work?

Perhaps like me there are certain songs or tunes that create an instant link for you to a particular time, place, or person. Other bits of that adolescent music may lack a specific connection, yet still reinforce the mood and mindset of an era---perhaps a special school year, or the social connections that were part of that moment. 

How many times have I been forced to admit that I sometimes march to a different drummer? I know very well that not everyone maintains mental files of the music, lyrics, and performers that they have endowed with the magical ability to resurrect bits of our personal history---the special moments, events, and persons we have carried with us all the way into our October and November years. On an allied note---do today's young couples have "their song" like we used to have? Having heard some of their music that seems unlikely---though I  suppose that might be a sign of October judgment bubbling to the surface.

For me it is the music of the Fifties that I've given that power. For you it may be the tunes of the Sixties or the Seventies that work the same magic. If you are living out your November years the war-time tunes of the Forties may take you to a place you don't visit every day. As near as I can remember the attraction began early for me. I can recall a vivid "Shrimp Bots" moment from the eighth grade---a bit that would eventually show up in my Best Friends and Promises story. 

It is quite remarkable to consider all the places a few hours spent with The Fabulous Fifties have taken me. But of course, I had other options. I could have packed my "Country Music Favorites" and spent long hours of driving along to the sounds of George Strait, Alan Jackson, and Travis Tritt. (Don't you love that name?"

I could have done that, and perhaps would have---except Roma made it clear I would be traveling alone if I did. You see, she has a thing about "twang." Rather than risk a solitary visit to the Oregon Trail I settled instead for The Fabulous Fifties, and I'm glad I did.

It is tempting to end this bit of nonsense by assuring myself that everyone has their own mental library of March and April musical recollections. But in fact I'm not sure that is true. Though I am not  the only one who gets swept up in those "memories set to music," perhaps most October folks have outgrown such childish behavior. I would like to know what you think. Have you ever felt the magic---a few bars of an old favorite transporting you to another time and place? If so, I hope you'll take a moment to use the "Post a Comment" option below. I'd like to know what or whom had the power to work that magic for you.

Now we're off to relive a very different kind of travel, to a time and place where folks lived out their dreams and memories around camp fires, to music of their own making. 

He writes what?

I'll admit that I cringed a bit when my first e-book publisher wanted to catalog my stories as “senior romance.” My God, do they still call it that in our October Years? And even if they do, what seventy-plus guy would claim to write “romances”? I can assure you, these stories of mine are not about muscular Alpha Males cavorting across a book cover in a torn shirt, swooping up a swooning and seductive maiden. Instead, the tired old Beta Males I write about are stumbling toward the promise of a late-life connection, resurrecting adolescent memories as they go---the ones they had filed away decades before and never expected to revisit. In the face of that reality I long ago set aside the “romance” label and settled instead on  “relationship” stories.

After all, relationships---whether casual or deeply personal---are the stuff of life. No matter what our age, when they work we thrive. When they are absent or injured, we suffer. And for my purposes, relationships are also at the heart of a good story. So why should I be embarrassed about writing something that everyone can relate to? Would I be more authentic if I wrote instead about fantasy or vampires and zombies, spy thrillers or who-dun-its---none of which are part of my personal experience?

Each of us, based on our own unique experience, knows how complicated and sometimes intimidating the “relationship seeking” process can be. For the October friends I write about it is all that and more. They and their world have changed dramatically since their youthful, first time excursion into that territory. Along the way they have gained at least one important insight---everything looks different through October eyes. Yet, though the world around them has changed over the years, they are still seeking the same affirmation and hoping to fill the same existential void. 

Yet, even with its new label, it took a while for me to move beyond the self-induced embarrassment of writing relationalship stories. I had to convince myself that relationalship episodes are an elemental part of life. More than that, they are highly relatable---sure to include recognizable snippets of our own lives. That’s what I enjoy the most, creating stories about good people who are in need, and hoping for the relationship that will help them heal.

I understand that fiction is a favored form of escapism for both readers and writers. We read a vivid fantasy, a murder mystery, or time-travel adventure to escape the ordinary---a perfectly valid reason. On the other hand, relating true-to-life relationship stories, like the ones I tell, is apt to take the escapist to the very space he or she is hoping to escape. In that case, I can probably write off a large portion of my potential audience. As for the rest of those fiction readers? How many of them are looking to curl up with an October Years relationship tale that’s not on anyone’s best-seller list---especially one that addresses head-on the challenges that come with that late-life territory?

Pretty clever of me, eh? Staking my claim in the tiniest sliver of the whole darn market, telling stories that few have ever heard of or considered reading. Oh well, I can live with that. After a time-out to spend a few weeks retracing the Oregon Trail, I’ll be back to finish my current "in-process story." Beyond that, who knows.

In the meantime I offer the following scene from Becoming that illustrates the inherent frustration that comes with writing “relationalship” stories.

As Jack and I got to know each other better we naturally cultivated a curiosity about each other’s work, until in time he had developed an interest in my writing. One of our earliest conversations about a story of mine took place on a Saturday afternoon at the Terrace, a busy pub not far from the local university. Jack had just  finished reading the latest draft of my first novel-length story and was ready to register his opinion. As I recall it was a three-beer lunch, which may have accounted for his socially incorrect bluntness.

“I’ve read about people who thought they were called to write,” he explained. “But what you’re doing with this calling of yours doesn’t make any sense at all. Of all the things there are to write about, why a love story about old people? Why not something more ....”

“More masculine.” I interjected, completing his thought. “More macho---with action and bad guys, maybe a homicide or two. Stuff like that, eh?”

“Yeah. That’s it. Make your guys younger, with a thing for loose women. Something to hold the reader’s interest. I mean, reading about old folks trying to get it going again, that’s not exactly mainstream is it?”

“You’ve got that right. The publishers who’ve read that story seem to agree on that. They’ve been absolutely unanimous in their disinterest. So what can I say? I'm telling the story I want to tell. That’s all.”

“But why? People read stories to get away from ordinary stuff.” Jack was serious now, wanting me to hear his logic. “Just think about what sells. It’s mysteries and whodunits. It’s tracking down a killer or a cheating husband. It’s about terrorists and undercover agents who have to find the bad guy before he destroys the world. At the very least there’s a good chase scene. And, of course, some really steamy sex. Then at the end, on the last page, the guy and the lady get together. 

“That’s what real stories are about,” he continued. “About suspense, and action, and mystery. They’re sure as hell not about some seventy-year-old guy deciding that a seventy-year-old lady is his soulmate.”

First of all, Jack’s objections were not new. The Old Man had registered the same complaints, although his exact language was a bit more colorful. In any case, there I was struggling to pay my bills, yet obsessed with the liberating freedom of telling my stories. The question was---should I spend my time telling the low-key relationship tales that flowed so naturally, or write the suspenseful action stories that Jack and the Old Man advocated? Of course, there was no evidence to suggest that I could do either one well enough to succeed. But that aside, should I focus on the stories I wanted to tell, or turn to something more commercially viable? 

“Tell me Jack, how many homicides and spies have you come across in your life? How many times have you been forced to save the world from destruction?” I did not wait for his answer. “Why would I tell a story like that? It has nothing to do with me.”

“But this is so damn ordinary.” Jack was struggling to understand. For a moment I wondered if he was ready to suggest a four-beer lunch. “Why would I want to read about stuff that’s all around me every day?”

“Come on," I replied. "This isn’t literature, you know. I’m just telling stories about ordinary people and some of their special times. They don’t always end happily-ever-after, but it feels like they’re real. And most of all, they’re the stories I want to tell.” 

“But can’t you see? They’re 'love' stories for God sakes.” Jack was ready to play his trump card. “Women write love stories, everyone knows that. Besides, real love stories are about young folks. That’s what all those little old ladies want to read about---young love. The people in your stories are too damn old.”

About then we fell quiet. All around us the busy pub crowd played on. The overhead television screens showed their ball games. Noisy college guys were trying their best to impress anxious college girls. The place was absolutely alive, yet I had managed to bore Jack into silent submission.

“You know,” I finally said, trying to resurrect our conversation, “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this through. When that relational stuff happens again at our age I think some of it must be like the first time around. You do remember that, don’t you? When we were kids and it was all about hormones?”

“Just barely.”

“But the second time around, or maybe the third, is bound to be different. It may be something like coming-of-age all over again---only this time each of them brings along all sorts of baggage. They’ve each had their own experiences and made their own memories. There are some highs they’d like to live again---and some lows they’re hoping to avoid.”

“You mean they’re hoping to get it right this time?” Jack was shaking his head again, convinced that he knew better than that. “Do you know the odds of that happening?”

“Come on, they’re not thinking about the odds. They’re looking for something they want.” I decided not to ask Jack what qualified him as an expert on “getting things right.” I knew something of his history, enough to render his judgment suspect. “As near as I can tell, a lot of people have those feelings. If I tell my stories in a believable way, maybe some of them will see something of themselves in what I’m writing.”

“And you know how to do that?” 

“I keep trying. Look, I used to apologize for telling stories no one wanted to read. I’m pretty well over that. I just keep doing what feels right and try to do it better.” I drained the last of my beer and stalled while Jack, my wage-earning buddy, dug in his wallet for the tip.

I Believe in Heros and Sheros

My friend Shirley’s post read “EVERYONE YOU MEET IS FIGHTING A BATTLE YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT.  BE KIND.  ALWAYS.”

I replied---”Shirley, your post reminded me of this little essay I wrote for a class assignment a few months ago---about those battles we all fight, and what I believe.”

                                                  ***

Caring, unselfish, willing to face adversity and do what must be done. Those are some of the things that define a hero. I happen to believe in heros. More to the point, I believe in “heros” and “sheros.”

Like most folks I remember the heros of my childhood---The Lone Ranger, Red Ryder, Jack Armstrong. They were the good guys, and they always won. Later there would be Mickey, Willie, and Johnny U---who seemed bigger than life, and although they didn’t always win, they won more than anyone else. 

Fast forward to the present. Perhaps it’s not surprising that by now much of what I know about real-life heros has been learned in the context of my church family. I’ve learned that God’s blessings often arrive in the form of "hes" and "shes.". Over the years Roma and I had the opportunity to visit with more than one hundred individuals and couples from our congregation, getting to know them and creating short profiles of their lives and battles. We were constantly amazed at how many heros we met in the course of those visits. For the last twelve year we’ve visited shut-ins, and in the process discovered a whole different crop of heros.

Along the way I’ve learned that heros don’t always win. They can become heros by the way they try. In fact, they’re often at their best when it seems that life has turned against them and the bad guys are winning. At times like that those heros are on the job, doing their good work and giving their best---encouraging and comforting, healing and praying. I’m pretty sure you’ll find them in every church on any given Sunday. (Though of course they don’t have to be in church.) In any case, I know for a fact that you’ll find them in my congregation every Sunday morning.

Sometimes you’ll know who they are. Their efforts will be obvious. But at the same time there will be dozens of others dealing with their own struggles---fighting battles we will never know about. For those undercover, out-of-sight heros the focus may not be on winning. Often it’s about coping---dealing with their personal adversity, relying on their own resources and the power of prayer to make it through hard times. I see those heros in every pew, every Sunday, seeking the strength and renewal to carry them through another week.

It’s comforting to know that when I’m in need of inspiration I can find examples all around me. "Caring, unselfish, willing to face adversity and do what must be done"---those are the characteristics of the heros I believe in, including the pair of special heros who keep me going. Each of us will have our own special list, but our reliance on heros will be the same. Everyone needs “heros,” and “sheros” to help them cope and carry on. That’s why I believe in heros.

Dad - He Deserved Better Than I Gave Him

(Originally posted June 17, 2013)

My dad has been gone sixteen years now. Though I’ll admit that I don’t think of him every day, he has a way of sneaking back into my thoughts at the most unexpected times---like last night, when I laid in bed trying to remember the person he was in the October Years of his life. The more I thought about it the more I realized that at the time I had no idea of how many October realities he must have been dealing with---including having a son like me.

Now, at my stage of life, it seems those seldom visited thoughts take on more meaning, as though our own October experience has a way of putting things in perspective. Certainly I have a better understanding of how important and satisfying our own parenting experience has been, though in truth I didn’t always realize it at the time. I hope that’s how it seems to you when you look back on your own family times.

Like all of us, my dad was a man of many facets. The one that surfaced last night was his extraordinary patience---which at times I must have tried to the max. What I remember most in that regard was the late 1960s when, nearly a decade after joining the family business, I was caught up in what I can only describe a very early mid-life crisis. It was then, in a matter of five short years, that I dragged my young family through a whirlwind of sometimes disorienting change. 

First there was graduate school. I didn’t really want to be there. But the Stanford Business School had invited me to be a part of their MBA program. That was an ego-boost for sure---one I couldn’t resist. A year later I was home, again working with Dad. That lasted a year---until I bought an Eastern Oregon ranch, so I could play cowboy. It took another year to learn  that I wasn’t really a cowboy, and couldn’t afford to play one. So I returned to the window business---for a year. Then, in the fall of 1972, I moved the family to England, where I pursued my suddenly important need to write a novel. 

Along the way Dad and I had established a routine of sorts. After each of those adventures I returned to the business, where he was anxiously awaiting my arrival---so that he and Mom could set out on their own long-dreamed-of retirement. But each time, before they had a chance to do that, I was off on another wild-goose chase. Looking back, it’s easy to see how patient he had been, and how much I owed him.

Given that history it’s probably not surprising that complicated father/son relationships occasionally show up in my stories. Nowhere is that interaction more central to the story than in Becoming. In the following excerpt Carl Postell has left his wife and career to follow his own writing obsession. Besides his stories, the ones that no publisher is interested in, the remaining constant in his life is his father. Though it is often disguised by loud arguments and blustery exchanges, their mutual affection is never far below the surface.

The Old Man’s healthcare aide answered the doorbell and ushered me inside. It was late morning and already warm, the way late-August mornings can be in the Willamette Valley. After cussing the Saturday morning traffic all the way across town I was ready for something to eat. I had skipped breakfast. Hopefully I was in time for lunch---perhaps a sandwich, or some soup. My own cupboard was nearly bare and I was seriously sick of Top Ramen. 

George Postell, my dad, was seated in his big cloth-covered recliner, the kind that tilted forward to help him stand up. Once on his feet he shuffled around his apartment with the help of a four legged cane. He was a small man, gray haired and stooped, Sitting there with a sweater draped over his shoulders he looked to be all of his eighty-six years. A hard life, especially one that includes serious disappointment, will do that.

I knew, of course, that my visit would begin with our predictable pre-meal skirmish---loud arguments and passionate rebuttals---replowing old ground just enough to stir things up, but never enough to produce new answers. Our dialogue, whether about politics, religion or something from the newspaper, was in fact a well-disguised form of play, a highlight of Dad’s week. In the face of his long, lonely days, our few minutes of spirited dueling were some of the best fun he had.

After years of spirited head-butting neither of us had ever convinced the other he was wrong---not because of my logic or his, but because accepting the other’s arguments would have felt too much like giving in. 

“Glad to see you could spare the time,” Dad grumbled as I pulled a chair up beside his recliner. “It’s been a while since you’ve darkened my door. I suppose you’ve been too busy, eh? Locked away in that dingy cave of yours---writing your silly stories, forgetting all about your old man.” 

By then I was catching a hint of the bemused grin he reserved for his wayward son, his only offspring. “Damn it, boy. You could be doing so much better than that.”

“Why should you care? I’m doing exactly what I want. You know that. It’s my life. Besides, I don’t take a dime from you.”

“Don’t you kid me. I know that you’re just buying time, waiting for me to kick off so you can come into some serious money.” As always, the old guy wished that I was more respectful of his seven-figure brokerage account, funded by the sale of the Postell family farm more than a decade before. I knew there were times when my apparent disinterest in his money upset him. Though, of course, there were times when I was more interested than I let on.

My dad was a smart guy. His body was worn out, but his mind was still sharp. It was a rare thing when I could poke a hole in his logic, though I would never admit that in range of his hearing. More than once I had tried to imagine what he could have become, had he not been a Postell---tied to the family and its farm.

I suppose most folks in his condition would have been in a nursing home, or at least an assisted-living place---like the one across the road from his independent-living apartment. It had been that “Independent-Living” label that sold him. I remembered that morning, walking through the sprawling grounds of the Tanner East-Side Living Center, listening as he repeated the names to himself, comparing one to the other---first “Independent-Living,” then “Assisted-Living.” One  of them sounded so descriptive of the person he believed himself to be. The other reeked of a weakness he would not accept for himself.

Perhaps on paper he did stretch the “Independent Living” definition a bit, but  his was a very determined independence. Once his recliner had pushed him to his feet he could shuffle around the apartment with his cane. It was slow going and though he never told me, I knew he had fallen a few times. 

Still, with the emergency call device that hung around his neck and the local Meals on Wheels program bringing him lunch, he was able to take care of himself---microwaving his dinners, managing his own personal hygiene, and looking forward to Maria’s visits every Wednesday and Saturday. She was his  housekeeper, caregiver, and best friend. Except for me she was also his last reliable link to companionship and caring.

From the beginning I had assumed that one day Dad would move across the street to an assisted-living apartment, or maybe down the block to the nursing-home unit. That seemed to me the logical progression---the path I expected his future would take. For his part the Old Man had no such plans. He was more than willing to forego those last stops on the itinerary that others were planning for him. He expected to “kick off” right there in his own place, before any further move was necessary. 

Stubborn, independent, blessed with a hint of bluster. Those words that describe George Postell so well also fit my dad. His last words to me were “I love you.” That was a bit surprising, since it was the first time I remember hearing him say that---though I never once doubted it. It’s no accident that in Becoming Carl Postell’s father, and mine, play important roles from the first chapter to the last.