Published: June 13, 2008 11:25 am            

HAMILTON: Fathers – love equals time

I was eight years old and the middle child of five children when Mom died. It was from a terrible disease from which today most recover. For years, my widower dad sat by the window and whistled his lonely, mournful tunes. That was in the early ‘60s; dad later died with Alzheimer Disease.

Now their granite monuments hum with the same sweet sorrows and joys that once rose from the subdued voices of those elderly women that sat upon the Deaconess’ benches of some southern Baptist churches. I heard those voices at my mom’s funeral; their chords and verses have been intricately woven into the fabric of who and what I am. Sometimes I find myself singing along with the memory of those women bedecked in white, joining in on the echoing harmonies but without even realizing it. And sometimes, in the muffled music of my parents’ tones, I sing, though poorly, the Christian hymn, “Blessed Assurance” – Mom’s stone is inscribed with the words, “Echoes of Mercy,” and Dad’s with, “Whispers of Love.”

My dad was what some would call a typical, unschooled southern boy of his generation who came north to catch his dreams. He found work in the city, bought a car, married, bought a house and made his family, counting on his wife to manage the things that he could not. Tragedy struck and he lost his job just prior to losing his wife.

I remember him, in those days, as someone who always worked very hard, came home and worked around the house just as hard as he had at work, spent time with mom and us and then spent the weekends with others like him; sharing Carlings, cards, dominoes and the other accouterments that were a part of that lifestyle.

But when mom died, dad changed as quickly as did the situation; giving up cigars, Camels and Canadian Club and fighting off relatives who wanted to raise this one or that one, he became a great “Mr. Mom” and no less a great dad. It was not uncommon for us to come home from school to find lunch on the table and him pulling laundry through the old Goodwill wringer washing machine. But, as good as he was in filling the role, dad had to work. It is what he knew.

Dad never sat me down and just chatted or taught me the facts of life; though he did teach me how to use garden tools, lawn mowers, how to hold a paint brush and the fastest way to pick fruit. But, after school, my sister and I would help him to learn to read and write so that he could fill out a job application. He learned rather quickly for an old guy; and, one day, my sister was all excited when she told me that my dad had found a job. I believed her, but at the same time I did not, and rushed to the basement where he was doing laundry and asked. Grinningly, he told me that he had. Our success had also broken my heart. After all of our efforts, my dad told me that his job was one of a garbage man. I instantly felt the pain of my friends teasing me and tease they did.

But, with the job, things like a newer car, a used boat, a new pick-up truck, a new garage, then a newer boat and newer car appeared in the driveway – the new trailer was parked along side of the garage. These things he bought as result of the treasure of bottles and scrap that he picked from what others called trash. We had great summers fishing on the summery weekends after my brother and I spent the weekdays on Lombardi’s Lewiston farm picking fruit and vegetables, working as hard as my dad did for what he wanted.

Dad continued to study, and we continued to help him. Eventually, he passed his truck driving test and went from the back of the truck to the cab. He was as proud of the move as I became of each new chevron that was sewn on to the sleeve of my Navy uniform.

Later, I married, had two sons, and then divorced. Earlier this year, my 19-year-old son and I were heading out to a restaurant in LaSalle for dinner when, out of the blue he said, “Dad, most of my friends don’t even know who their father is; and I want to thank you for all of the time that you spend with us, and for being such a big part of our lives.”

I was shocked; but keeping my eyes on the road, despite the fact that I wanted to pull over and cry, I thanked him for his kind words and quickly changed the subject. But as we drove on, I thought about my dad and the contributions that he made to my life. Though I never spent much time teaching my kids what my dad taught me, I suddenly realized that the silvery packages of paternal love that he gave me, I had unwrapped and had given the presents therein to my own children: I spent a lot of time with them and shared the things that I had and knew and they thought the world of them.

As I stand among the granite stones and hear nature’s choir rustle through the trees, my mind echoes between now and yesteryear and it proudly hums along to the whispered whistles of that old garbage man who taught me that time equals love and that love is timeless.



Ken Hamilton is a Niagara Falls resident. He can be reach at Kenhamilton930@aol.com.

        

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