Two days ago I had lunch with my old man.
He's pushing 90 now, but so with it, still. How does he do that? I think it's all that bridge and word puzzles; bourbon, good genes and dumb luck.
We had lunch at this private downtown club, overlooking Lake Michigan; a club I'd been coming to with him for 35 years -- as long as we (my brother, parents and I), and then just my folks, had lived in the apartment that they've now packed up. Next week, the folks will move out, spending a couple of weeks in a hotel before heading to Florida again.
I've had more than a few lunches with my old man at this club. When he first joined, the club -- once the hangout of artists and writers sprinkled in with businessmen -- didn't admit women. My dad voted for the change; my mom, I would say, lobbied hard for that vote. Women started to join the club, and all the old guys were shocked (and secretly pleased) when the place became a little more lively.
But the old guys have mostly passed on, and the women haven't joined in great numbers. The place is usually deserted now; the deep-dish pies are made with canned fruit, the entrees are kind of thrown together, and the old gentleman who's been the manager ever since I can remember is now so hunched over he could hardly look up to see that the mangy teenager he remembered accompanying my old man was now a balding suburbanite with a salt-and-pepper goatee.
As we sat looking out at the lake, my old man told me about his first summer on Martha's Vineyard, as a teenager, babysitting for two young cousins, and how astonished he is that they're both dead and he's still here. We talked about all the people who are gone. The room seemed to be filled with them.
My old man has a little more trouble walking now, but he still has a confident, almost stentorian voice. He told me of a few things I might have to take care of, in case of an emergency, and then he wanted to talk about me.
This has always been my dad. He has always been a watcher, an observer, a listener. He's good with a wry comment or a terse verdict, but he will not carry on at great length. He won't say much, but he won't miss much, either. There is both an authority and a reticence about him -- a talent with people leavened by a guilt, I've always supposed, at the chance he got at living a full life, while his beloved brother was deprived of that chance.
We only sat for an hour, but it passed quickly. We talked about me (imagine that). It all felt like it was over too soon. We walked out of the building together, into the bright, humid sun hammering down on Michigan Avenue. I went one way, to drive back to the suburbs, and my old man went the other, to take the train back to the South Side. I thought I should walk with him; then I thought he'd probably get a little irritated that I'd think he needed an escort; then, as he walked slowly toward the train station, I realized it was probably one of the last times he'd make that particular trip.
I have always felt, with my old man, like I needed more time. I still feel that way, and I probably always will.
--T.A.
priceless!
Posted by: perplexed | August 24, 2007 at 08:04 PM