As we drove, we talked and talked and then talked some more. We talked for two straight days. When I arrived at my sister's house I turned custody of our father over to her. I had been trapped in the truck for two days listening to the same old stories over and over again. Enough is enough and I had come to that point.
I guess I'm pretty slow. I now realize what my dear old father was doing. He was reaching out to me. He was asking me to remember him. He was leaving a portion of himself behind with his stories. This old man had buried two women who he loved dearly. He would be next. When he spoke of his death I didn't want to hear it. I told him he would live another ten years. There was many more stories in his future.
Yes, he probably has another ten years left, but what will those years be like? Dad is a short round little man with snow white wavy hair. He walks with short stiff strides, his hands clasped together behind his back. He holds his hands there at the small of his back because of the chronic back pain he experiences whenever he walks any distance. When will the pain get so bad that he no longer can walk from the post office to the bank and then to the insurance agency office?
When did my father get so old? When did this hard working father of six become the sweet old man who pops his head in the bank wearing a crazy hat that resembles a crab to tell "the girls" he is "crabby"? He feels it is his duty to brighten the day of the hard working women at the local businesses. Every day he tries to come up with a new story, joke or simply wearing a funny hat to entertain "the girls".
Sharing our story forces us to face the deepest truths. We face our fears and realize that life is short. Each life is full of joy and tragedies, whether you are rich or poor. We all have the same struggles. Our stories help us in our soul searching to find truth, identity and the meaning of our life struggles. So what is your story?
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