I'm not sure how old my father is in this photo. It was taken when he was still teaching high school. I am told he came dressed for the day as a clown and the school photographer said he would take his picture if he would sit down.
I loved this photo that hung on our wall at home. He looked like an actor to me. Apparently he would like to have been an actor. I think he had a beautiful singing and speaking voice. I can still hear his voice in my mind, most easily when I play back the mental tape of him reciting the opening lines of Chaucer's Canteberry Tales or poetry from Tolkien's Silmarillian.
I was thinking of my father on what would have been his 90th birthday. It's hard to imagine him at 90 since I said my goodbyes to him when he was only 86 years old. So young, really, and younger each year as I age.
I can remember calling him on his last birthday on this side of the earthly veil, back in 2017. He had stopped speaking by this time in his palliative care. Occasionally he did get out a word - "wonderful," but not on this visit. On this visit he only communicated through his facial expressions.
I had called the Seaton Care home ahead. I asked if his iPad could be to be turned on and set in front of him so I could wish him a Happy Birthday. They always obliged when they could.
When his face came up on the screen, I enthusiastically said, "Happy Birthday" and launched into the Primary version of a birthday song,
Happy happy birthday, father dear,
Happy days will come to you all year,
If I had one wish, than it would be,
A happy happy birthday, to you from me.
By the time I got to line two, I could see he was in some distress, but didn't know what I could do for him, so far away. I chose to go on singing with gusto. His facial expression did not shift in the direction I had hoped. His distress only increased.
Song done, I could see he was trying to vocalize and his body was unable to support his desire in that moment. I tried to reassure him, comfort him. I remember saying, "I can see you are trying to tell me something but the words aren't coming. It's okay, dad. You don't have to say anything. I can the talking for both of us."
Yes, that is what I said to him. In truth, it was an attempt to comfort him, but even as the words came out I realized it was an odd thing to say. Who wants others to do the talking for them.
I think if he had been feeling better, and I had been feeling less anxious about his distress, we both would have had a very big laugh.
He had a great laugh.
~BonnieWyora
(Below Rebecca is going to refer to a website, easiliest approached by clicking here)
Well, that was fun to read. I have been thinking a lot about Kelvin, lately, since I have been one who had a side-by-side life with him, two people walking side by side, kind of like in a wampum belt. both of us purple beads captured in straight lines of purpleness, two canoes in the same river, watching and learning from each other. Ever side by side.
ReplyDeleteThe picture that you have shown was taken about the time I was moving to the understanding that it was OK to take a text, a spiritual text and treat it with the same reverence I would give to an academic text, which is with quite a bit of respect, bordering on star-strtuck adventure about what I was about to learn.
That's how I feel about your writing, star-struck.
Deletehard not to look at this and want to break into the scene from "I, Pagliacci" (here is the version with Mario Lanza!)
ReplyDeletehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRhmogBs-gU
What a voice! 1958. Wow.
DeleteI was 18 in 1958 and a big fan of Mario Lanza -- he was one of the first operatic voice I ever heard, for he was in some films. My mother told me that when he sang, chandeliers would shake. How amazing did I think that was!
ReplyDelete