Today happens to be my father’s birthday. March 5th. He would have been 89. Happy Heavenly Birthday Daddy.
To my family: This is how my mind remembers. If you remember these moments differently, please, don’t tell me. I want these precious images to stay “Mine”.
Memory. All alone in the moonlight. I can smile at the old days. I was beautiful then. I remember the time I knew what happiness was. Let the memory live again.
I’m hoping, you recognize the lyrics from the Broadway Musical, Cats. With this series of posts, I am going to be reminiscing about a piece of my life. A portion where My memories are few and more often than not, memories of others. The memories of my Father.
Why are my memories the recollections of others? Quite simply, I was six years old when he passed away. I have about six memories that are genuinely mine. Some are not memories of my father specifically, but the circumstances surrounding his death and the days that followed. They play in my head as though they were a compilation video of Super 8 film home movie recordings.
The bee sting~ I recall being in our back yard. There were more, Violets, Clover and Creeping Charley than grass. Daddy was weeding in the flower beds. I can remember keeping track of him in my peripheral sight line. Feeling as though, if I couldn’t see him, I would then be “lost”. I was busy collecting clover blossoms. I was making a bouquet for my mother, which I knew would be placed in a tiny vase and set on the kitchen window above the sink. Just as had been done numerous times before. As many of you know, if there is clover, there will be bees. Busy little bees, collecting the pollen and nectar they need to survive. Also, I hate shoes. So, little me, took them off to be able to feel the sun warmed grass under my feet. As I wandered, I stepped on a bee. I must have made a terrible noise. Daddy came running. Scooped me up. Bolted into the house and called out to my mother. They worked in tandem to fix my foot. Daddy’s kisses and Mommy’s medicine (what I would grow up to learn was a baking soda paste).
Learning my address and phone number~ The summer before Kindergarten, my parents taught me my address. My father was an elementary school teacher, and my mother a former children’s librarian. So, of course, I was an early reader. My father had a package of “tag board strips” (not sure if that is the correct name. Think of poster board thickness). They were PINK. Anything pink could hold my attention. He carefully, wrote out our address, in “teacher” handwriting. Then, on another strip, delicately inscribing our phone number. I recall being enthralled with the penmanship. Together, He and I used masking tape circles on the back of the tag strips and put them on the wall next to the telephone.
I’m finding it difficult to close this post. Perhaps, because these thoughts are as precious as diamonds. Some are very basic. Others, will be more detailed. I hope the reader can feel the love and affection I have for my Father. Stay tuned to Honestly, Carrie for a few more views from My Mind’s Eye.
Honestly,
Carrie
Honestly Carrie 