Thoughts

In the photo, I am smiling. My light brown hair is streaked blond from the late summer sun. My ivory silk wedding dress trimmed with lace, falls gently to my feet that are clad in off-white leather ballet-style pumps. I found the dress and the shoes on clearance. Even before I married her son David, I had learned smart shopping tips from Polly. In spite of our startlingly young ages, she was all for this wedding. She considered me a good choice for her baby, her “heart and soul” as she liked to call him.

Her husband, Maury saw things differently. In retrospect, he was not unreasonable. I was nineteen years old, a mere teenager and my fiancé had just turned twenty-one. The marriage was happening quickly because even though we were engaged, my parents didn’t like the idea of their daughter living with her boyfriend in an off-campus apartment. They graciously planned the wedding we wanted: a ceremony on a boardwalk next to a Cape Cod beach in August just before the start of the fall semester. David and I chose a Tuesday afternoon because our favorite song at the time was “Tuesday Afternoon” by the Moody Blues. My future father-in-law found the idea of nuptials on a weekday completely bizarre. In fact, he informed me that he would be attending only because his son was getting married.

At this news, I became hysterical. My childish sensibility sought unconditional love and approval. Polly comforted me and explained that her husband was a good man, that a person’s personality can never be seen in black and white, but rather, in shades of gray. I listened to her, and vowed to try to get along. In the photo, Maury is hugging me with both arms.

It wasn’t until twelve years ago when my mother-in-law died, that my relationship with my father-in-law deepened. Perhaps her energy and vivaciousness had simply dominated. After she passed away, Maury began to spend an occasional fall foliage weekend with us in Vermont, and loved swimming with his son and grandsons in the wild surf at Lucy Vincent Beach on Martha’s Vineyard. I can still picture my youngest son, Jason clutching his grandfather’s left arm while my husband is grabbing his right, and the three are approaching the waves. They shared a love for the ocean and the sand.

Especially in the past few years when Maury’s mobility has been limited, we have had one-on-one conversations about politics, and my writing. An avid reader and a former labor lawyer, he has enjoyed word plays and intellectual discourse. He was proud of my Cambridge Chronicle columns and always asked: “What are you writing?” When he could no longer focus on the printed page, I read my articles aloud to him.

After he fell out of his wheelchair last July, he seemed to embark on a downward spiral. Since then, he has lived in a nursing home. Every few weeks and sometimes once a week, I would drive over for a visit. Even at age ninety-six, his full head of hair is just starting to gray and his face has few lines. He has a ready smile for any attractive female nurse; his flirtatious demeanor has not changed. He refers to my daughter-in-law to be as “that pretty girl” even though he knows that she’s intelligent, and he respects a sharp mind.

As recently as last week, we counted the members of his family: from four children, he has eleven grandchildren and fourteen great grandchildren. We also talked about the upcoming primaries, and he commented that there is a woman running who is bright and capable. So when I walked into his room yesterday and found him in a semi-conscious state, I felt sad. Yes, he has been an extremely lucky man and has had a wonderful life. During the past few years, he has attended a bris for each of my grandsons, his great grandsons: Simon and Asher. He beamed at those gatherings in my daughter, Jessica’s and son-in-law, Shane’s home. Not long ago my son, Aron spent hours with his cousin, Daniel making a video of their grandpa so that our whole extended family will forever have his stories, his memories, his face and his voice. Yet I wanted so much to discuss Super Tuesday with him but he, as I knew him, was no longer there. He is resting comfortably. I talked with his devoted caregiver, Linda for a while before I kissed him on the forehead, took his hand, and said: “Good-bye, Dad”.