A Flood of Memories

With the recent passing of my mother, at least once a week I take my eighty-seven year old father out for lunch.  It’s a warm, happy time, as I get to spend one-on-one moments with him, something that rarely happened when my mother was alive. But times have changed, and while I greatly miss my mother, now is the time to focus on my dad, and I’m glad to spend moments with him, a man I admire more than any other.

Recently, as we were returning to his home after eating, I realized we were passing by my old stomping grounds, the area where I lived from second grade until my graduation from high school in 1970. Eleven years I resided there, and when the time for college came, I left my beloved home in southwest Oklahoma City for Stillwater and the orange and black of Oklahoma State University.  As hard as it is to comprehend, over forty-six years have passed since then. Where has the time gone?

Dad was agreeable for a little sashay into the past, much like Michael J. Fox in “Back to the Future,” so we made a right turn into the neighborhood and after driving ten blocks, we arrived at 64th Street.  Another right turn and four houses later, our old digs came into view.  I was astonished to discover how small the red-brick home appeared. When I was a lad, it seemed much larger.  How did our family of five fit into such a tiny place?

When I stepped out of the car to take a picture, shown above, I was flooded with a kaleidoscope of memories, a collection of odd snippets that I couldn’t believe I still remembered.  I recalled when the neighbor to our east planted a mimosa tree, which grew into an overshadowing, lurking giant, and how my father and mother hated cleaning up the debris that it shed on our lawn. Through the chain link fence, I could see the infamous storm shelter, mentioned in “Oklahoma Is Where I Live,” the one constructed by my father, with the assistance of my uncle Dale, which leaked an ocean of murky water onto its floor. I remembered when my father planted multicolored ornamental pepper plants in the front flower beds, ones we were just supposed to admire, but we tried to eat them anyway, much to our fiery dismay.  And who could forget the time Dad lovingly bought a train set for us, which, when not in use, was kept raised up on pulleys in the garage?  I also looked back on the moments my brother and I were coerced into going to my sister Connie’s dance recitals and trying not to squirm in our seats. I recalled the ping pong matches my brother and I used to have, bitter games of high intensity that often led to angry disagreements, and the times my amazingly tolerant parents allowed us to invite our friends over on Friday nights for penny-ante poker, many of us smoking Swisher Sweets Cigars and trying to act like professional gamblers.

Of course, how could I not recall puppies – lots of them.  We had two fox terrier mixes, Snappy, the male – my first dog, and Mandy, the female – my brother’s dog – and they produced litter after litter of cute, wiggly puppies. One such litter is seen above, with me to the left of the photo, and my brother, Jim, to the right. Nothing in the known Universe is better than snuggling up to an adorable puppy, one that is bound and determined to lick you in the face.

Dad and I then decided to drive around and check out the old neighborhood. Again, powerful unbidden memories swept through my consciousness, wanting once again to be remembered. Across the street from our home was the residence of Charlie and Michael Babb, neighborhood chums my brother and I wrestled and played games of football and baseball with, occasionally breaking out windows when we were lucky enough to hit long fly balls.  My bud Marvin Turner’s home was just around the corner, and a block north was the home of Lisa Forrester, a young lady I had a longstanding, unrequited crush on. We drove past the houses of old friends George Hargraves, Patty Keller, Adena Shepherd, Sarah Thompson, Phil Calame, well, the list goes on and on, all bringing up warm feelings of bygone times.

After I returned Dad back to his home, more recollections flooded my mind, and this process went on for days, pulsing in and out of my awareness. As I basked in their glow, I realized that the feeling of love and connection that bathed and protected me as a young boy continued to surround me, even as an adult.  As I look deep inside myself, I realize how important it was that I felt safe, a blessing not every child had. Not that I wasn’t exposed to neighborhood bullies and occasional cringe-worthy moments – I was – but overriding all of this was a feeling of security, love and the opportunity to morph into the person I would become.  As the twig is bent . . .

So, thank you, Mom and Dad, for finding a house in such a tightly-knit neighborhood and providing a loving home environment for me to grow up in. You gave me a firm foundation upon which I was able to eventually go to college, become a physician, raise three daughters and, finally, evolve into an author. Also, thank you, all my old friends, wherever you may be, for contributing memories I will cherish forever. And, most of all, thank you, God, for giving me the opportunity to live and breathe, and allowing me to appreciate the simple pleasures in life.

Such as being licked by a tail-wagging puppy.