Napping
As I mentioned earlier, my father is a mathematician. Sometimes his grandchildren affectionately refer to him as Dumbledore behind his back. It might as well be in front of him, because he is just not paying attention at that level to those types of things.
Here's a few more details to help develop your sense of my dad. When he was a child, he kept a small notebook in which he would denote names of railroad cars as he saw them on the tracks in Portland, Oregon, where he grew up: Union Pacific Railroad, Norfolk Southern Railroad. When I was a child, he used to keep a tiny Mead spiral notebook in his pocket and maintained lists of things like adjectives starting with the letter "j"--as they came up in conversation. You see the need for authentic experience at the core of making it onto the list. There was no Google of course, to make short work of these carefully crafted lists.
Although there was a computer. Long before anyone else had a PC, there was a computer in our house which my dad would set to work on "hard" math problems. The computer would hum along at night, doing calculations. My mother and I, inhalers of fiction, knew the computer was plotting to take over the house, although what that would have looked like in reality wasn't really developed. Still, at night, I would peek into the study on the way to the bathroom, the glow of the machine lighting the way to a future in which I would post meanderings about cancer on my blog.
My dad's best friend was a mathematician from Norway named Bostwick (still is), he played the French horn and piano (still plays the French horn in an ensemble that can be heard at assisted living facilities all over MetroWest), would devour a box of raisins at a single sitting (my mom won't let him) and adores his dog, Gracie. (I'd ask you to pause on the fact that his dog is named Gracie, which sounds unfairly like Tracy, leading to many times when my heart has jumped into my throat before I remembered that no, I was not illicitly on the table or rooting through the garbage).
My parents moved from Columbus, Ohio to Concord, Massachusetts last October so they could be settled, into their new neighborhood, their new temple, their new dog walking paths, their new routines with my children and my sister's children before, and we danced a bit around this, they inevitably grew older and more in need of the kind of care my sister and I could provide to them.
Here's a few more details to help develop your sense of my dad. When he was a child, he kept a small notebook in which he would denote names of railroad cars as he saw them on the tracks in Portland, Oregon, where he grew up: Union Pacific Railroad, Norfolk Southern Railroad. When I was a child, he used to keep a tiny Mead spiral notebook in his pocket and maintained lists of things like adjectives starting with the letter "j"--as they came up in conversation. You see the need for authentic experience at the core of making it onto the list. There was no Google of course, to make short work of these carefully crafted lists.
Although there was a computer. Long before anyone else had a PC, there was a computer in our house which my dad would set to work on "hard" math problems. The computer would hum along at night, doing calculations. My mother and I, inhalers of fiction, knew the computer was plotting to take over the house, although what that would have looked like in reality wasn't really developed. Still, at night, I would peek into the study on the way to the bathroom, the glow of the machine lighting the way to a future in which I would post meanderings about cancer on my blog.
My dad's best friend was a mathematician from Norway named Bostwick (still is), he played the French horn and piano (still plays the French horn in an ensemble that can be heard at assisted living facilities all over MetroWest), would devour a box of raisins at a single sitting (my mom won't let him) and adores his dog, Gracie. (I'd ask you to pause on the fact that his dog is named Gracie, which sounds unfairly like Tracy, leading to many times when my heart has jumped into my throat before I remembered that no, I was not illicitly on the table or rooting through the garbage).
My parents moved from Columbus, Ohio to Concord, Massachusetts last October so they could be settled, into their new neighborhood, their new temple, their new dog walking paths, their new routines with my children and my sister's children before, and we danced a bit around this, they inevitably grew older and more in need of the kind of care my sister and I could provide to them.
It feels especially cruel to watch them pivot as beautifully as they have to turn back towards me in order to take care of me. They are making lists for the grocery (I'm sorry, the yogurt will be in a tube?), driving grandchildren to camps, and leaning in to hear the doctors offer up explanations for the ache in my spine, to name one.
Today my dad came over and I asked him to lie down next to me in my new, brilliant bed ( it's a king-sized Tempurpedic bed which has separate controls on each side to sit you up, place you down flat, and possibly we will find the eject button).
My dad held my hand and we napped together. It was wonderful. I imagine I haven't napped near my dad for something like 45 years. Neither of us remember the last time we napped together, but I'll never forget this one.
Today my dad came over and I asked him to lie down next to me in my new, brilliant bed ( it's a king-sized Tempurpedic bed which has separate controls on each side to sit you up, place you down flat, and possibly we will find the eject button).
My dad held my hand and we napped together. It was wonderful. I imagine I haven't napped near my dad for something like 45 years. Neither of us remember the last time we napped together, but I'll never forget this one.
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