michael a. horvich writes: Dad

Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts

Friday, October 9, 2020

Curb Scrapers

When I turned 16, my father gave me driving lessons. The year was 1961. We were driving down McCormick Blvd in Chicago. I was behind the wheel, my dad was in the front with me, and my mom was in the back.

We were going around the curved run on McCormick, near Oakton. Apparently I had not “curved” enough, so I got too close to the curb and the feelers sounded.

My father threw a “hissy fit” or whatever the masculine version is. I didn’t hit the curb and quickly corrected the car but my father still was exploding.

Shortly after, my mom decided that my father was not the best candidate to teach me how to drive so she signed me up for private lessons. Lessons in one of those cars that had two steering wheels, one for me and one for the teacher!

We could hardly afford the lessons but my mother knew that we could hardly afford the damage to my psyche he would cause and the possible heart attack for my dad!

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Mom and Dad Memories

I don't feel good mommy. Please make me some tea and toast and when I have finished that will you tuck me into bed? As you always do, put the palm of your hand on my forehead to see if I have a fever and say, "Cool as a cucumber."

Tell me that I do not have to go to school tomorrow and since I feel so "poopy" that I do not have to do my homework tonight. Later make me a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup which you know are my favorite comfort foods. Kiss me and tell me you love me.

Dad, I am sorry to say, I do not know where you are through all of this. I know you worked hard yesterday climbing ladders and taking risks as you worked with electricity in run down buildings that smelled of rat shit. I know that you tried to teach me to wire a broken lamp but I lost interest and that upset you.

I see you sleeping on the couch after dinner, listen to you and mom bicker through dinner, watch you shave before you go to bed, but I don't remember kissing you good night, or you me. I see you getting up early, worried about what the day's work would bring, and taking a last minute thirty minute nap, again on the sofa, before leaving for the "shop" to get your supplies loaded into the company truck.

Mom, when you were at hospice dying, I called and I asked you if there was anything we needed to talk about. You said, "Nothing except that I love you!"

Dad when you were at the hospital dying, I called and told you "I love you." You said, "OK," and hung up.

What makes a mother a mother? What makes a father a father? For that matter, what makes a person a person? I grieve that I never really got to know who either of you were behind the "Parent Mask." I grieve that I could not hold you in my arms during those final moments and kiss your face. I grieve that I am soon to be celebrating my 70th birthday and then soon, I too will be gone.