Life With Father

My parents are coming to visit this weekend. 

We try to see each other at least once a month and switch between them coming to visit me and me going to visit them. I’m excited because this weekend is Father’s Day, which means I’ll get to spend time with my dad on the holiday rather than just sending a card and FaceTiming. 

Last Saturday, I had the pleasure of attending a talk with one of my writers group colleagues, David N. Clay. He recently self-published a book of essays about his dad called Life With Father. He co-wrote the book with his sister. 

The event took place at a community gathering space in the town of Amherst called Second Stage. It’s an event venue and studio space located in an old brick church. The sanctuary is a gathering space, while the classrooms and offices are art and yoga studios, small businesses, and a coffee shop. (I thought the concept of turning an old church into a community gathering space was such a neat idea!)

David shared some of the stories from the book, which had the audience laughing and tearing up, myself included. And it got me thinking about the people in my life who I’ll be telling stories about after they’re gone—my dad, mom, grandmothers, and grandfathers.

Throughout the event, David shared some details about his dad that warmed my heart. They were little things, like the fact that he took afternoon naps on the couch. He would take off his shoes and glasses and put them under the couch while he slept. What little details like that will I remember about my loved ones? 

Maybe my dad’s matching pajama sets that he has been wearing for as long as I can remember. Some of them are so threadbare that my mom has frankensteined the best parts of each pair together to keep them going a bit longer, leaving him in a patchwork quilt of plaid and polka-dots. 

Or I’ll remember my mom’s signature perfume, Clinique Aromatics Elixir. It’s been around since the ‘70s, and I’m pretty sure she has been wearing it most of her life. I remember dad buying it at the mall for Christmas or her birthday when we were kids. Just last year, I got her a new bottle for Christmas—nearly thirty years later. 

Or I’ll remember how Nana filled her house with aqua things. At first, she would buy things in aquamarine blue if they offered it, but I’m pretty sure she eventually bought things just because of their color. I still have her aqua KitchenAid mixer and a variety of household items in that cheerful blue. 

Or I’ll remember how Grandma K smelled of baby powder and wore Birkenstocks. She slept with curlers in her snow-white hair every night and had a crock on her kitchen counter to hold utensils that looked like a giant can of Campbell’s tomato soup. 

I used to liken Papa to a cartoon character because he wore the same thing every day like a uniform—a white tee shirt with khaki pants and suspenders. If you opened his closet, you’d find hanging pair after pair of identical khaki pants. And he always seemed to misplace his glasses. One time, I gathered them all up and found at least a dozen pairs of identical silver wire frames. 

These kinds of details are the things we remember when our memory starts to fade. When thinking about them feels like looking at a picture through tracing paper. 

I almost didn’t go to David’s event last weekend, but I’m glad I did. A handful of writers from our group showed up to support him, and it was such a special time of storytelling, sharing, and reflection. I think we all left feeling inspired and grateful for the father figures in our lives. 

If you’re interested in David’s book, it’s available now on Amazon. You can also follow him on Facebook or Instagram if you’re interested in learning more about his work.