Then I left for New Harmony, following, in pre-GPS
days, the directions given to me by some patrons at a McDonald’s in
Bloomington, where I’d stopped for lunch. I, of course, had a road atlas with
me, but the state map of Indiana was not all that detailed, and I hoped to gain
some information about a more scenic route to New Harmony. At Mickey D’s, a
helpful Hoosier, seeing me look at the map, offered me the best way—but, as I
wrote in my journal later, the directions were serpentine … and I was about to leave, planning to ignore him. But then a young mother with two little
guys sitting at the next table told me she’d overheard and gave me some
different directions, which I followed—and loved.
Off I went on
some lovely little two-lane roads winding through rolling hills and beautiful
hardwood forests (leaves changing—though it’s quite dry, too, and the fields
are full of grasshoppers, reminding me of some Oklahoma summers from years ago)
….
It was a gorgeous day in New Harmony—nary a wisp of a
cloud. I walked around the town, camera firing away, took a good look at the
former home of Robert Owen, a stately brick structure (bought two prints of
same—one for me, one for Betty; mine still adorns our kitchen wall), and
wondered about Utopian dreams and dreamers and what draws them to rivers like
the Wabash, to places where they believe they can somehow create a society that
will restore us to our prelapsarian purity. So far, it hasn’t worked. Anywhere.
Now … about that special
poignancy I mentioned a little earlier concerning my October 4 email to
Betty that informed her about my imminent trip to New Harmony. After telling
her my plans for that trip, I wrote this: Then
I’m off to Massachusetts this weekend for my parents’ sixtieth wedding
anniversary. Of course, I couldn’t have known when I wrote that sentence
that this would be the final anniversary my father would live to celebrate. I
have written in detail about my father’s decline and death in my memoir Turning Pages: A Memory of Books and
Libraries and Loss (Kindle Direct, 2012), but just a few things here, for
some context.
My parents were married in Enid, Oklahoma, on October
12, 1939. An odd coincidence: My wife and I were married in 1969; our son and daughter-in-law,
in 1999. Cycles. Dad had led a vigorous life (born on a farm in Oregon—a star
athlete in high school and college); he’d served during World War II (both
theaters) and Korea (stationed in Texas). But as he aged, he slowed, declined.
And by the fall of 1999, he was in a wheelchair, barely hanging on in the
assisted living unit where they lived near Pittsfield, Massachusetts. He knew
the next step was a nursing home—and he, like every rational person, dreaded
that prospect.
I drove east, alone (Joyce was teaching), on Saturday,
October 9, and stayed with my brothers in their old country farmhouse in
Becket, Massachusetts, a place they use for a summer and weekend getaway (they
both lived—and live—in the Boston area). Both my brothers were there for the
anniversary—as well as our son and daughter-in-law, married less than two
months. We had a little dinner in an area of my parents’ facility, and I later
referred to it in my journal as a bust.
I noted that Mom and Dad sat at opposite
ends of the long table, … and I don’t believe they exchanged any words the
entire night—a scene from Citizen Kane.
When I got home on Monday, there waiting for me was a
voice-mail from my younger brother. Bad news. Dad was in the hospital, his
heart misbehaving. Things were not looking good, so I made arrangements to fly
out on the actual day of his anniversary …
I’m not going to rehash all of this. I can’t. Not
again. Dad, 86, hung on until the end of November … I was back and forth to Massachusetts several
times that dreary month.
But on October 16 I let Betty know what was going
on. I told her about his situation—then this: Anyway, I’m home again and awaiting the call I’ve never wanted to
receive. She replied: So sorry to
hear about the news of your father. I know this must be a difficult time and my
thoughts are with you.
From then on, our correspondence almost always had a
personal dimension.
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