The following piece I originally wrote as a newspaper column. It pertained to my father (who died in 2018), who dwelt in the mental hell of Alzheimer’s. At the end, Dad didn’t know my name. He knew my mother and sometimes referred to her as “that pretty lady.” I didn’t submit this to my publisher, because I felt it was too personal and too enigmatic for readers’ tastes. This represents a conversation I wish I could’ve had with Dad in hopes he could somehow shake that terrible disease…
There are so many things you don’t remember anymore.
In 1979, we swam in that indoor swimming pool somewhere in Kansas. You, Sabrina and Misti swam on the deep end while I stayed in the shallow end. I hadn’t learned to swim yet. Curiosity got the best of me and I ventured into water too deep. Before I could panic and thrash too much and see the terrifying blurry sight of under water, you gently lifted me up back into the safe zone.
Earlier in 1979, when driving home, the car broke down. We had to walk a mile or so home until someone picked us up. To you, it was no big deal. Get the car fixed, problem solved.
Then there was the time in the summer of 1980, when we got lost while driving on a mountain road in Colorado. You pulled out the map, looked over it the way some might casually scan the morning newspaper, put it away and, a few hours later, we were exactly where we were supposed to be.
Do you remember how you always knew what to do, no matter how insurmountable the task seemed?
When we went to help grandma move to a new house in Oklahoma in 1988, Aunt Juanita’s drunk boyfriend made a pest of himself. I watched, curious, as you smiled and gave him responses that deflected his mood. “Nobody ever won an argument with a drunk,” you said to me later. “Let him sleep it off; he won’t remember any of this when he sobers up.”
It still amazes me how you’d busy yourself with home improvement projects. The smell of fresh southern yellow pine would waft through the hot, humid air, the whirr of the electrical saw and the pile of sawdust. Many times I’d watch in astonishment as you’d use your skills to get carpentry, electrical and plumbing work done.
Do you remember how you’d end a project with that favorite saying of yours?
“I’m the jack of all trades, and the master of none!”
As I’d watch you over the years, I’d often think that while you didn’t get great grades in high school, you seemed masterful at reading people. You also seemed to understand that life is far more complicated than what so many people realize, that people should earn respect, and that we should be polite to everyone.
I’ll never forget that one Friday night in 1990 when we made a home movie. Grandpa was also in it. In that movie, you showed a rare public display of your sense of humor. When I asked what your fondest work memory was, you replied, “Early on in my career, when we used to blow things up!” Then, with a devilish grin and a twinkle in your eye, you gathered your hands into a ball, cast them separate ways and said, “POW!!!!!!”
Thirty years later, I still chortle about that.
There are so many questions I had for you, both about your life and your thoughts on the world. And now, I can’t. At New Year’s, you mistook me for Sabrina. The last time I was home, you thought I was Uncle Jerry. I knew any questions I had would have to wait until we meet again in heaven.
Death, be not proud…
(Richard L. Zowie died July 2, 2018, at the age of 81, from complications from both Alzheimer’s and Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma).
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Richard Zowie, Writer 