The Fragility of Memory

            As I am working through dad’s death, I think one of the hardest things is the fragility of memory. It’s so fragmented—little pieces here and there—as if I want to have the stone of complete memories, but all I have are tiny ripples that are left.

            Today I was sharing with my brother and mom how dad played Fartula. Neither of them remember that, but I do. He used to wrap a blanket around himself and pretend he was a Dracula character. Obviously he did have a bite, which was more of a nuzzle of the neck, which would cause my brother and me to squeal. I remember he would cover us with the cape (the blanket) as he went in for the “bite”. He also would occasionally use his cloak to cropdust us. It was just dad having fun—loving on his kids in an ornery way.

            I remember the smell and chill of the cold air when dad came through the door on a winter day. I remember his love. His kindness is becoming even more evident as we are talking with others remembering dad. He touched lives. Maybe I took his kindness and humility for granted.

            As mom was going through some of his stuff, we found some of his Red Cross blood donor cards. That was dad—quietly doing things that helped others. He also had his dad quirks. I remember him propping up the push mower and cleaning off the bottom. If I recall correctly, he tied it to a tree and made sure to remove the spark plug. Then, he got in there with a scraper and a hose. I can still see the clumps of grass the cleaning would leave on the ground. I’m not sure as a kid I ever quite cleaned it right or quite mowed the lawn how he would have done it. As I look back now, I can see this cleaning was dad trying to save money. He was always doing little things to save money—from his lawn mower cleaning rituals to working on cars. More to come on that in future blogs.

            Then there’s the times I mowed his lawn when he was sick. He was so appreciative. We had three lawns. He was sick at his last house, the one mom currently lives at.

            The first lawn was a house over on Massillon Road. We were at that house until I was seven. I don’t remember that house all that well. Maybe I’ll ask mom the address. What I remember is the surroundings—our yard out back, our neighbor’s yard and house, and the baseball field not far away. Later that baseball field became a little shopping plaza with a grocery store, pizza shop (I’ll have to ask mom the name), I think a dry cleaners, video rental places and maybe a few other things. I remember playing in the swampy area out back in our yard—looking for things like frogs. I’m not quite sure “swampy” is the right description, but I remember there was an area where the mowed part of the lawn ended. I think dad planted a fairly large garden out there. I also remember mom telling the story how he dug the foundation around that house. Dad was good at moving dirt—both to save money and because he was a hard worker.

            I remember outside that house being confronted by a large, snarling dog. I was petrified, but dad showed up to save me. It’s a weird memory. I was on the west side of the house. I can vaguely picture things. I was facing north and our yard sloped out the back. To this day I still don’t like dogs. Maybe it has something to do with this childhood memory. I’ll have to save my own personal psychoanalysis for future blogs.

            Mom retells the story of dad’s anger at our Philco television set. According to mom’s recollection, he was going to take it out back and shoot it. I don’t remember that, but I do remember trips to Kmart to match up vacuum tubes.

            I remember the time our school was selling oranges. It was for some sort of fundraiser. The oranges came in crates. It was a winter day and mom and dad didn’t see where the parking lot ended and the schoolyard began due to snow. I was in class and remember watching their blue Chevy Malibu (I think it was a ’76) motoring over the lawn. Considering the classroom I was in, this was likely fourth grade (maybe third). I was embarrassed as everyone quickly figured out it was my parents.

            I remember as a kid that dad had big arms. Little boys are amazed at dad’s arms. They don’t look as big in the pictures (although they look toned), but he had a bicep that was solid. As a kid that thing was a rock-hard beachball!

            Our best memories were from our house at 2798 Laura Lane; Akron, Ohio 44312. This was the house were I grew up. We moved there when I was around seven. Dad spent countless hours digging out an area for an above-ground pool. Ours wasn’t like other pools. It was scooped out and deeper in the middle. I think dad lined the bottom (underneath the pool liner) with sand and spent quite a bit of time with a long board (I think probably a 2X4) smoothing it out. He also built a nice deck for that pool. He wasn’t afraid of working hard to do things for his family. I remember we had a ditch out back. My mom had a fit when dad was shooting rats out there with his .22 rifle. She also had a fit when he brought home a deer and hung it up on the trees out back. Maybe I can talk to her and later share more details of that story. We did have some strange things in our fridge in the garage. I believe we had some venison out there as well as squirrel meat. I think the squirrels were gutted and skinned, but they still retained the shape of a squirrel. So, it wasn’t like the packaged meat from the Giant Eagle butcher. It’s a little different when the meat still looks like the animal it came from. I don’t recall ever eating squirrel. I don’t think mom would cook it. And, I think she was also squeamish about venison, although I think I may have cooked some up and it was a little dry. That might not have been the venison’s fault. Dad did take my brother and me on a few hunting trips to hunt squirrels. It never really took. Neither my brother nor I really got into it, although my brother will fondly share the story of his perfect shot. Maybe I’ll add more detail on that after talking to him. I also remember Lucky (our cat) out in the garage. I think I’ll save memories of family pets and dad’s involvement with those for future blogs.

            A fond memory was fishing trips with dad, my brother and me. We went out to Nimisila Lake on several occasions. There was also a bar around there where we went dumpster diving. Dad called himself Dumpster Man, which was him playing a super hero. We were collecting aluminum cans to save up for something (maybe I’ll ask mom, but it may have been for the swimming pool). As I recall, dad did most of the work. Anyhow, back to fishing. I remember standing by the shore underneath the trees. I have a vague memory that at one point my brother snagged him with a hook. I also remember the time when we were over at Grandma Millie and Grandpa Bob’s house (mom’s side and grandpa was actually a step-grandfather). I think it may have been Christmas Eve or around the holiday season. The car wouldn’t start. Dad popped the hood, got out, went around to the front, and then lifted the hood. My brother took this opportunity to honk the horn. The funny thing is, I remember this story and kind of have a vague image in my mind, but I don’t know how much of the story is my memory and how much is hearing my brother retell the story. Dad did yell and hit his head a good one. I believe he had quite a goose egg. It’s lucky he didn’t impale himself on the hood latch, which resembled a spear.

            In another blog I’ll have to share memories of fishing trips at Goodyear Wingfoot Lake Park. I realize if I don’t save things for later, these blogs could end up really long. Dad was a man of few words—me, not so much. I don’t share dad’s humility, liking the sound of my own voice. However, I do think part of my love of writing came from dad. Dad was creative and inventive. But, he’s more like my brother. That creativity was turned to the outside world and fiddling with things, and my creativity is turned toward the inner world of thinking about things.

            Dad had several old Chevy Impalas growing up. We had a ’67. I remember it was hit by an Oldmobile and can vaguely see it sitting in the street with plastic sheeting as the driver side rear window. Dad loved the 283 V8 engine. According to him, it had good power and got good gas mileage. The ’67 was replaced by a ’70 Impala. It was dark green with a black vinyl material. In the summer that vinyl was hot and had buttons that would torch flesh. I think dad really liked that car. We had other cars—a ’77 Malibu classic. Dad helped to repaint that car with Jack Twyman, who lived in the neighborhood and had a decent garage. It was a deep blue with a metallic fleck. If I remember right there was one place where the paint slightly ran. I think that may have been dad’s fault as Jack was a better painter.

            I remember family vacations. Dad drove so slowly on the highway. Of course, it might just be a kid’s memory. Kids want to be there immediately. I suspect part of it was his concern for our safety. He always wanted to start journeys so early in the morning. At times, I honestly wanted to sleep in. As he grew older, I recall his driving became quicker. So, maybe this sense of slowness really was more a result of my impatience.

            I don’t think dad drove after cancer changed his life in 2013. We were hoping he might get back to it.

            Anyhow, I’m getting tired and may have to continue this later—particularly as I talk through this with mom, Lance (my brother), friends and family. For me, writing is a way to process things. By putting things down, I feel like I’m giving his life permanence—a record of things he did and the person he was. I have both good and bad memories, but most of them were good. There was no bad blood between dad and me. I do have some hard memories of health problems he faced and depressions he went through. I think as I grew older, I became more understanding of these problems, as I understood life better and experienced some of these things myself—although not at the same level as dad. I’ll probably share some of those memories, just so others can realize that depression is real. Maybe there are lessons from his life that can help others. I would say the majority of lessons would be from his kindness, humility, compassion and warm smile. But, this isn’t a complete person. He had his struggles just like everyone and I do want to share them as well. I think dad would want me to work through those struggles, so I don’t face them like he did. And, I think he would want to help others. Anyhow, there will be more blog posts to come as I work through all these things.

            If you follow these posts, you may notice they are fragmented and that I revisit things as the memories occur. This is the messiness of the writing process. So, you’ll get to see this messiness in action. I’ll probably later clean up and consolidate all these blogs and put together a book. You’re going to see me use writing as therapy for my grief.