It is hard to keep track of memories. And memories of parents, those people who loom larger than life, are probably not very reliable.. However, it is all we have, after all. My father died recently, and death brings all of those memories to the surface. A few memories from my childhood: Pulling out a large piece of paper, laying it down on the dining room table and writing. He was writing down everything we, his then illiterate children, were saying. The mostly went like this: "Daddy, what are you doing? What are you writing? Why won't you answer us?" We called them Banana Stories. Playing Parcheesi with a very young Michael, my brother. The evening ended well when Michael won and in tears when he lost. Well, I don't think my dad was crying during either event. Welding. I don't know what my father was welding, but we were not supposed to look at the flame. Sometimes the welding turned into sculptures that still decorate corners of the farm. Me telling one of my father's friends that my father was old now that he was 30. And the friend laughing. Me not understanding his laughter. Windsurfing. I never learned to windsurf but my dad would go out at the lake in the Poconos and the Delaware River in Riverton. I'm glad he had a hobby. The smell of sweat and sawdust. The smell of a builder. Whenever I smell sawdust, I think of him. The famous spiderweb made of the inner tubes from tractor tires tied together with rope. The sleeping porch outside of our bedroom window. Some years we slept out there until Thanksgiving. I don't really remember him making them, but they appeared and they were certainly put to use. A few memorable conversations with my dad: Me: Dad, I have the opportunity to travel to Colorado for spring break or I can come home and spend time with the family at Fripp Island. Dad: Follow your bliss. Result: I went to Colorado. Me: You and Mom lent me some money. Mom says I don't have to pay it back. Is that okay with you? Dad: As far as I am concerned you can never pay your parents back for what they've done for you. Result: Gauntlet thrown. I never paid them back. How could I? During one of the final days, when my dad was no longer speaking more than one word responses, I said something about it was okay for him to go if he needed to. A few minutes later, he said very clearly, "I have been informed." I have no idea if it was related to what I had been telling him, but why not?
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