September 9th is my father’s birthday. September
is Recovery Month. What do the two have in common – almost nothing. Except,
that my father believed he could “cure” Riley of “that problem” if he could be
alone with him for about a month. Daddy was old school. I have heard tales of
him being greatly depressed after having lost his best friend during the War.
The depression led to some heavy drinking. It didn’t last long because his
newlywed bride, my mother, threatened to end the marriage if things didn’t
change. He stopped right then and there and drinking was never an issue again.
Yes. He did drink, but never over-indulged again.
With five children and several cousins being in his charge,
Daddy was often overwhelmed with frustration. It seemed to all of us that he
was all-knowing and was almost clairvoyant about what we were doing. Telling
him a lie was bound to end in unpleasantness. He was never violent because he
didn’t have to be. He had a certain look of disapproval that you always hoped
was intended for someone else.
Besides being strict, he was also a bit of a comedian
especially when taken aback by something one of us said or did. When he was
exasperated, confused or surprised, he would place his open hand on the upper
ridge of his nose, just under his eyes, and bring it up his face. He stopped
and rubbed his eyes, still open handed, then continued to his forehead and the
top of his head. Then he would take his hand down and raise one eyebrow and say
“Whaaaat?”; Or sometimes, “Have you lost your mind?”; Or, some other expression
of astonishment.
I understand that hand movement. Without even realizing it I
seem to do the same thing. I guess I’ve been doing it for a long time but just
didn’t notice it.
The other day Riley was being especially needy. He needed
the picture of the dog to be moved a half-inch further from the television. He
needed a new bottle of water so it would be there the minute the current one
was empty. He needed the sheet pulled over his feet. He needed to know if I had
called anyone about a supplemental Medicare plan. He needed for me to order him
something from QVC. He needed… he needed… he needed.
After the first 3 “need requests” I found myself. Placing my
hand at the upper ridge of my nose and imitating my fathers hand movements.
It is gratifying that I have inherited some of my father’s
traits. It makes it easier to cope with whatever is going on at the moment. My
father’s incredible work ethic, overwhelming perseverance, positive attitude, exude
strength without violence, intuitive but logical reasoning, and ability to
forgive, are traits that I wish to add to my bag of things I have received from
my parents. Just like my blue eyes and reddish/blonde hair, I am my father’s
daughter. I just don’t understand why I couldn’t have gotten the curls…
All of the traits mentioned above have led to my being able
to survive my journey down this fork in my road of life. I haven’t achieved all
of them to the level that I want, but it’s a continuous worthwhile effort. All
things considered, the road I’m on is a short road that only seems like a
million miles long. Yet, I’m more than just surviving, I’m thriving. And
although I may be frustrated and exasperated at daily instances, I am basically
happy.
The road to happiness can begin with an examination of the
traits you have, the ones you want, and having a goal of achieving what you
believe you lack. Once you have identified the traits, you can move forward
with putting them into your everyday life. At first, this survival thing isn’t
easy but it will get easier. When you aren’t even looking you may end up being
happy and thriving in spite of your difficult road.
