<html xmlns:v="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:vml" xmlns:o="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" xmlns:w="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" xmlns:m="http://schemas.microsoft.com/office/2004/12/omml" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"><head><META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=us-ascii"><meta name=Generator content="Microsoft Word 15 (filtered medium)"><style><!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:"Cambria Math";
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;}
@font-face
{font-family:Calibri;
panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
font-size:11.0pt;
font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif;}
a:link, span.MsoHyperlink
{mso-style-priority:99;
color:#0563C1;
text-decoration:underline;}
a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed
{mso-style-priority:99;
color:#954F72;
text-decoration:underline;}
span.EmailStyle17
{mso-style-type:personal-compose;
font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif;
color:windowtext;}
.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif;}
@page WordSection1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in;}
div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}
--></style><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1026" />
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:shapelayout v:ext="edit">
<o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1" />
</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link="#0563C1" vlink="#954F72"><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal>The ending is abrupt, but I’m already a day late and a dollar short, sorry!<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Old Memories <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>July 2020<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Word Count: 927<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Like each sip of a fine wine, I savor every second with my 95-year-old Dad. Minute by minute, we create new memories from the precious few moments that remain. Every word Dad utters, a simple “Oh, hi” or “Look” is invaluable because the remaining words are so few. I cling to each lonely syllable. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I don’t want to forget when Dad, the consummate Patriarch, was in charge. He’d proclaim, “Sit down over there” or “Go find your mother.” when there were still complete sentences. As an Air Force officer and chemistry professor, Dad’s vocabulary was abundant while I was growing up, but the most recent coherent conversation I recall having with my father was about three years ago. He was 92. Mom was still living. Dad was worried about who would take care of “his wife” after he died. I reminded Dad that he had worked hard all his life to provide security for Mom and his children; that he needn’t worry about a thing. My words seemed to reassure him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I witnessed Dad’s confusion that Father’s Day; he recognized his children but not his grandchildren; he toasted his sons and sons-in-law but later had to be reminded that he was a father, too. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>My first glimpse at Dad’s failing mind occurred during a family dinner when we were talking about our annual holiday ski trip. My father had skied downhill for nearly half a century. For 20 years, he sponsored a team of family members to compete in our annual benefit race for visually impaired and blind skiers. Two of Dad’s four daughter, including me, were born with a genetic eye disease which causes progressive vision loss. Mom and Dad were among our biggest supporters, but at age 91, Dad couldn’t remember ever participating in the benefit race - even after detailed reminders. Was it jet lag? Mom and Dad had recently returned from travel abroad.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“It’s like I went to England and came back without a memory,” Dad commented to me privately. The realization that he couldn’t remember our annual event shocked us both. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Dad started struggling to find words at about the same time. Then, Mom passed unexpectedly ahead of him. After that, my father’s vascular dementia seemed to accelerate and his connection to the present began to blur at the edges. A lifetime of brilliant colors mixed and muted in his mind like the setting sun. His memories of Mom and his children are now forever locked away.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I cherish my own memories of talks with Dad, although I was in high school by the time we formed a truly personal connection. Naturally, my most vivid childhood memories are of playing with my siblings or neighbor children, favorite clothes, climbing trees, and sneaking lunchbox desserts after dinner; Mom cooked and cleaned at the fringes. Dad was “there,” in the tradition of many dads at the time, I suppose. He left for work before breakfast, arrive home in time to watch the evening news before dinner, and then retire to his office to correct papers or “do” what Air Force officers do when he wasn’t TDY. A typical child, I was oblivious to how bills were paid or how my new school shoes were purchased each year.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Perhaps my earliest memory of my father was one of my earliest memories in my own life. I was looking out the back window of our black Rambler as New Mexico faded into the horizon and we headed for the Colorado Rockies. I was four. I imagine my father was driving the car, moving his wife and five children (one more would arrive in Colorado) to his newest assignment at the Air Force Academy near Colorado Springs. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Honestly, I don’t remember Dad being relevant to my life until I began lurking about him, attempting to earn an allowance as an adolescent. My father came to understand his parenting role late in the game. Mom paid the price when Dad was the emotionally-absent father of six unruly children, but he redeemed himself as we got old enough to hike, backpack, and ski.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Perhaps because I came of age in the 1970s at the same time my father retired from his military career, Dad favored me. He didn’t “play” favorites but, for whatever reason, he confided in me, although I was the fourth of his six children. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>At age 16, Dad approached me in the privacy of my bedroom with a question. He wanted to know my opinion of how my brothers and sisters would feel if he and Mom divorced. Honestly, there was so much fighting in our house at the time that I told him it might be the best thing if he moved out. I didn’t beg him to stay. Mom and Dad didn’t have the perfect marriage, but it turned out they held on for nearly 70 years despite my advice. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>When I was a young adult, Dad appointed me to be his #2 P.O.A., the successor to his eldest son. This placed me in a position of confidence above two of my older siblings, an awkward honor.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Dad once collapsed into my arms after our family rescued our oldest sister and her sons from an abusive family situation. As I supported Dad, I felt the weight he had carried in his role as the get-away driver.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>That’s only one example of how Dad has been there for his children and grandchildren any time we’ve needed a helping hand. He forgets, but I remember. If ever I forget, I pray that my daughters will remember<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal># # #<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p></div></body></html>