Memories of a Father Departed.......................Two Spirit

Growing up, I did not have the typical father-son relationship that many have. It was not because neither of us wanted it, but the way circumstances worked out. In my younger years, we did do a lot of things together, hunting and fishing, camping, riding together on the motorcycle. The different kinds of things that fathers and sons do.

Soon after I turned ten, my father's work began taking him away from home. He would come home on weekends, but there was not the time to do things that we once did. A lot of his time was spent doing things around the home that needed to be done. Occasionly there would be the fishing or hunting, but not a lot of time to do things we always enjoyed.

When I got my first motorcycle, he was there to teach me to ride it, but we did not have the time to ride together that often. He taught me to drive when I was eleven, and at fifteen, did find the time to get me ready for my driver's test. He even went with me to take the exam, using his truck to take the test in. When I got my car, a little distance began creeping between us. Having transportation, I would work after school, at night, and on weekends. With his working during the day, often times we were just two people passing. If I had trouble with my car, he was there to help me fix it.

I remember once at seventeen, how for some reason we had gotten into an arguement. I had never before stood up to my father in anger. For some reason, that night I did stand my ground. We had slowly grown apart, as at times happens between a father and son. In those few mintues of anger though, things changed between us. For the first time, my father did not see me as only his son, but as an equeal. The moment passed without incident.

From that point onward, there was a bond between my father and I such as there had never been. We found the time to spend together whenever we could. When my parents decided to buy land and build a house in the country, my dad and I would spend an entire weekend working on the land getting it ready for the house. We would work together in the fields we had planted to bring in produce. In the winter, we found the time to go hunting together again, and fish during the summer.

When I made the decision to join the service, my father supported me fully. On the day I left for boot camp, he was there to see me off, and was there also the first time I came home on leave. When I would come home, we made time for each other to do things together.

When I left the service, we were even closer. We began working on cars together, and the occasional motorcycle. If farm equipment needed to be worked on, we did it together. We worked together to rebuild an old 'B' Model John Deere, restoring it to it's oroginal beauty, as well as a 1960 Fordson Diesel tractor. We used both of them in the fields at home, as well as operating a profitable hay business. If we had a piece of equipment or a vehicle that needed to be worked on, we did it together. If we could not buy the parts we needed, we would fabricate them, my dad doing the rough manufacture at the house, and me doing the machine work at the plant where I worked.

All of our time was not spent on work though. Together we had rebuilt a motorcycle which we both enjoyed, as well bought and refinished a day sailer. We still found time to fish and hunt, or just to sit and talk about life.

I will always remember the day my father was diagnosed with cancer. I was in Charleston, SC for a court case. I got out of court and called home to see how he was doing. My mother told me they had put him in the hospital and the he had been diagnosed with cancer. I drove staight home that afternoon, breaking every speed limit there was. That night, I sat with my father and we talked about his diagnosis.

The next eighteen months were spent fighting the cancer. I spent as much time as I could with my father. We still did things together when he was able, but mostly we would sit and talk, or just enjoy each other's company. We never talked of his impending death. It was a subject neither cared to breach. We talked only of life.

It snowed the weekend before my father's death, the Blizzaed of '93. He still had his senses about him, and enjoyed seeing the snow. For the next several days, I would go see him everyday at lunch, and again after work before going home. On the 8th of March, 1993, I stopped in after work like I had been doing, and sat wit him for about an hour before going home. We had just finished supper when the phone rang, my aunt telling me to get to the hospital immediately. I drove as fast as I coud back to the hospital, and got to his room to see my mom and sisters sitting on his bed crying. I walked over, sat down, and took his hand. His breathing was very slow and labored, and his pulse barely noticable. We all sat there for ten minutes or so, praying and crying. Finally, he took his last breath, and I felt his pulse stop. After a moment I looked up at the nurse, and nodded to her that it was over.

A strange feeling came over me with my father's passing. It was not a feeling of grief, but one of relief. I knew he was no longer in pain, and that he had found a better place.

I still have strong memories of my father, the things we did together and the talks we had. To this day, I can be working on something, and it is as if his hand is there guiding me, making sure it is right. I visit his gravesite at least twice a year, always by myself. I will sit beside his grave and talk. It is as if I know he is there listening to me, and sometimes I can feel what his response would be.

Thirteen years have passed since his departure, but the love and feelings I had for my father are still as strong today as they ever were.

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