Father's Day 2002

We pick him up around the corner from his church in Belton.

We drive to Temple, and eat at Applebee's. Temple is one of those mid-size towns where chain restaurants are effectively the only option. So we eat at Applebee's, but we eat well.

Indeed, my portions are impossibly large, and I realize that there is truth in those alarmist articles about how the growing portions at chain restaurants are fattening up America.

Reagan's vegetarian pizza is slathered in alfredo sauce, making it exceedingly rich and so floppy it is impossible to handle. He attacks it with a fork.

Dad eats the lime chicken they have at every chain restaurant, and it's actually not so large. They have apparently agreed to meet in the middle of the size spectrum. He looks well, though, healthier than normal.

I do not make eye contact with the hostess or our waiter, both high-school aged. I am thinking to myself I was you once, stuck in this slow-paced little town with nothing to do. And then, hopefully, I got out early, and maybe so will you.

I look at the waiter when he returns to refill our drinks. He is tall and wide-shouldered and probably plays team sports. He smiles at us, genuinely, and I think that this is one of the better things about Temple. People are nice, mostly.

We talk over lunch, and he seems well and happy. His brother Jim is renting a beach house for a week next month and he wants to go. One or both of us will have to go along, to drive him there and back and spend the weekend in the sun with Jim and cousin Karen and her six sparkling children.

I want to go, and I am not as upset about not having the European sabbatical as I have been. I will be here for this. I won't be missing this.

His routine angioplasty (for his arm, not his heart) went well. He is playing 42 every weekday with people in his building. He has been adopted by two old ladies in the building, who he calls "Mother" and "Grandmother". Grandmother has a son who is 72, so this seems appropriate.

I think about his father, who died when he was 5. His mother, who died when I was not much more than that. Now he has a Mother, and a Grandmother. He seems well. He seems happy and well.

We drive him home to his building downtown. Like most downtowns, it is dying, but at least it is not yet dead. It still has some life in it. They are building a bus terminal, and some shops are still managing to stay afloat. The library is still here, in the old post office.

I've been reading about the failures of housing projects in Witold Rybczynski's City Life, but this one is pleasant and clean. Two old men, one of them in a neck brace, sit in the lobby opposite the elevator, watching people come and go. They joke and jaw with him for a few minutes before we go down the hall.

People are nice, mostly.

It is my first time coming here since he moved. He gets a reduced rate because he is on disability income, and it shows. His apartment is very large and clean, and I think it is the first space he has lived in alone that is big enough for his big life.

The people here are obviously wonderful. The local bakeries donate dated baked goods on Mondays, when he is on dialysis, but someone always picks a few things out for him while he is away. A craft fair is coming up, and they have found out that he used to paint, so they have given him a pile of craft items to paint. Grandmother bought him a set of acrylics and brushes.

Mother has bought him a full set of spices. When they had a potluck barbecue a few weeks ago, she brought him a huge pot and some beans so he would have something to make and bring.

He seems happy and well looked after, and I am not surprised. His best gift has always been the ability to make a friend of anyone at all.

As we follow him around the apartment, looking at various things, we find a card has been slipped under the door. Yet another little old lady, the vice president of the building association, has left him a Father's Day card under the door.

A woman comes twice a week to clean and help with his laundry. He plays 42 for three hours every weekday. This all equates to a hopeful sum, maybe enough to stave off disorganization and depression. Loneliness.

He has a Mother and a Grandmother and a space of his own with room to be his many selves. To paint and make music and cook from scratch.

The sun peeks through the shaded window, throwing light almost to the door where little ladies slip sweet notes, and I hope it is enough.