One day this past Fall I dreamed of my
father. It was a very real dream and lingered long into the day.
I was in high school and it was
winter. One of my parents would always rise at 4:00 am to start
their work day. This particular morning was dark and very early. A
heavy snow had fallen during the night. My dad woke me to tell me to
get dressed. I had a job shoveling the Regina Maria Retreat House
property.
I got dressed—warm clothes, boots,
hats and gloves. I was not pampered. Neither parent would have
expected anything less of me that to get up long before daybreak,
dress, shovel the city block then go to school.
I walked the 15 minutes to the
house—trudging through unshoveled snow very deep snow. I let
myself in, choked the snow blower, got it out and began the slow task
of ploughing out their long drive, then four very long sidewalks.
The Retreat House occupied a full city
block. The nuns paid be $1.50 an hour to work for them.
Maybe I finished. Maybe the nuns fed
me some breakfast. That I don't remember. What I do remember is
heading to school—Mount Assumption Institute--which was across the
street.
I do not remember the school day, but I
do remember returning to the Retreat House to finish the job after
classes ended—four sidewalks, a huge driveway and several smaller
walk ways.
That was my dream. It was as I had
relived the entire day. I could feel the wet snow. I could see my
father and I could hear him.
And then I woke up.
I was very far from home, very far from
MAI, and very far from all that was familiar from those years long,
long ago.
And I was sad, and the sadness stayed
with me all day long. I found myself mourning my parents once
again,found myself missing them, found myself feeling lonely and
alone.
I was in Mexico City on the morning of
that dream and happened to be heading to CAFEMIN. I shared the dream
with my friend Sister Mirian who's always been my CAFEMIN contact and
who, over all these months, has become my friend.
“A dream like that, Dan, when you see
loved ones who died, means you know they're OK.”
I thought that rather different coming
from a Catholic nun, but I wasn't surprised that she'd given me this
information. I've felt all along that they are OK, and that has
always made their passing a bit easier.
We parted, and then I cried, and then I
was OK. The sadness lifted. It was just one of those temporary blips
in life that remind us of our humanness.
The whole dream got me thinking of the
things my father taught me and the things that have stayed with me
all my life.
My father taught me to obey him, but
rarely in a mean way. How many overly-enabled children today would
get up at 4:00 am, not question the early rising, shovel an entire
city block, go to school then finish the job? There are those who
do, of course, but I imagine more would refuse the task.
And thinking of that dark winter
morning, I thought of how my father reacted to weather. When he was
in World War 2 he was fortunate to live in Honolulu. That forever
altered the way he viewed the North Country. Somehow he convinced my
mother to move the family to Florida. No more winter's for him!
Unfortunately, my mother was unable to
tolerate the brutal Florida summers and within two years they moved
back to New York.
Did he he miss those warm days, those
snowless winters, that “forever summer” life he'd come to love? I
don't know because I never thought to ask him and he never complained
about being back in the north. I think he was like most men of his
generation. They'd been to war, they saw things no human should have
to see, they survived, came home, married and jumpstarted their old
life. Somehow they compartmentalized the past and simply moved
forward.
Later in life, as a young teacher,
something happened to my car. I didn't have a lot of money, but my
dad reminded me that I had a job and that the money I earned would
pay for the repairs. “Be grateful,” he told me, “that you have
a job to pay for these things.”
“Be grateful....” I can not tell
you how many times in my life I have used that counsel when life has
thrown me a financial curveball—times I needed a new roof, or a
major car repair or whatever. I always had a job that would pay for
those things, even if it took a year to do so.
What a valuable lesson!
There is much I learned from my
dad—things both big and small. Things like learning to swim or
ride a bike or hit a baseball. He taught me to ski and bowl. He
taught me that, no matter whether I needed to or not, when I had
access to a bathroom I should always use it. Oh, yes...thanks, Dad!
I have never forgotten that lesson and it's come in handy hundreds of
times.
For the most part my dad was a kind,
quiet, non-judgmental man and I wish, so wish, I'd had him longer in
my life. I'm grateful I did have him until I was 45 and that he
had a full life until the very end.
I'm grateful he did get back to Florida
in his later years.
And I am most grateful for what he
taught me about dying. I never once heard my dad complain about his
cancer or his fatigue or the fact that he knew he was dying. He
simply accepted it for what it was.
Dad died twenty years ago today. Can
it be that long? My skin has regenerated itself three times since
then. Life truly does move on.
Never a Christmas passes when I don't
pause and think of that year. Something will always trigger a
memory. There was a time when it was painful, but now I think of the
precious gifts of friends who came forth that year, and especially of
the two “angels in denim” who stayed with us through the entire
time. And I always give thanks for that quiet time on that Christmas
afternoon when Dad was lucid. “I love you,” I told him.
“And I love you.”
It was great to see him again, even if
it was in a dream. If time could be reversed, and I had to
opportunity to be awakened again by my dad to shovel out the Retreat
House, I'd gladly do it. We never know how precious a moment can be
until it's long passed.
