We have been estranged for many years due to his physical and mental abuse. My final decision on never to speak to him again was when he threatened to hurt my grandchildren. He was angry because I wouldn't tell him where my mother was. We'd had to separate them because he was being so physically abusive to her and she deserved some peace in the last years of her life. When I wouldn't tell him where she was, he threatened me. Then my husband. Then my children. He crossed the line when he threatened my grandchildren. I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought of him, and that I was through. Fifty years of abuse was long enough. I also warned him if he ever came near my grandchildren, I would do physical harm to him. And with that, I walked away.

So yes . . . he is now gone. Since then I've heard good things and bad from others, I've spoken of good things and bad about him myself. My mood has fluctuated from being pissed off, to feeling guilt, to laughing and shaking my head, to crying. My mind wouldn't shut down. It was like old movies were playing over and over in my head.

I've decided to have Daddy cremated, which was always his stated preference, and then his ashes will be shipped to the Duncan Cemetery in Oklahoma for internment. He'll be placed next to his mother. That seems to be the area where he was truly happy: Oklahoma and Texas are the places that could always make him laugh. And the one person that he loved more than anyone else in the world was his mother, so it all seems very fitting that he should rest next to her.

He was born in Stephens County, Oklahoma and that will be his final resting place. A full circle.

Yesterday afternoon was spent at the residential facility where he has lived the past 8 years. I met with the administrator, and his 2 primary care givers. We spent hours talking about him, some good and some sad, but we covered a lot of territory. The sad part was the room he lived in. The facility itself is very nice and very well kept, but he had sold all of his furniture trying to fund his ever present "Trip to Texas" so had nothing but donated articles in the room. He had destroyed any and all family photos so the only things I was really able to retrieve were medical paperwork and oddly enough, three collector thimbles that had belonged to my mom. He had a suitcase packed since before being transported to the hospital he was trying to leave again to go to Texas. The suitcase had clothes and shoes in it, an address book, and other various articles, including his ever present set of tools and an odd assortment of nuts and bolts.

That's all that was left of his life.

The best story I heard yesterday is that Daddy was part of what they call "The Archie Bunker Gang". These were 8 guys, ranging in age from 80 to 92, and to be part of the "gang", you had to be white. (My father had always been a very proud racist.) The oldest guy, Jasper, had an old Ford Fairlane sitting in the parking lot, since when he first arrived at the facility he was still able to drive. He's since had a stroke, but still loves spending time in his car. So these 8 guys would go out there when the weather was nice, taking their beverage of choice and a pack of Marlboro's. They would all sit around and talk trash, spit and cuss, smoking their Marlboro's, popping the hood on the Ford and talk of the old days. Picture a group of Walter Matthau and George Burns type guys, complete with walkers, canes, and wheelchairs and you'll have the picture. These guys also use to take great delight is setting off the fire alarms in the building. The security guard and night staff would hear an alarm and take off running only to get there and find one of the "gang" apologizing for "accidentally" using the fire door to go out and smoke at 3 in the morning. And then there were the hookers. The gang were caught sneaking a couple of sweet young things in off the main highway some nights . . . yep, via the fire door. And then the women started showing up during the day to visit their "friends". The staff would watch to make sure the guys weren't getting ripped off, but they had to allow them their privacy. They only laid down the law when the guys were setting off the alarms.

The sad thing there was that the one care giver really received the bad end of the deal. Daddy would just thrash her, for no reason occasionally. She actually still had stitches in her lip from the last altercation last week. He split her lip real good, bless her heart. But we figured out the reason why yesterday. She's a bit heavy set, with brown hair and eyes, just like me. She said that she used to get smashed against the wall and hit, all the while he was referring to her as "Vickie Lynn". She didn't quite understand that until I told her that was my name.

There's been good and bad, and happy and sad. But what I've decided to focus on is the good. Each of us in the family have some good memories of Daddy, and my hope is that's what's remembered. The past is the past and we can't change it, and it's not healthy to dwell on it. My favorite picture of Daddy is the one at the top of this page, and it's going to be how I remember him . . . that picture with an assortment of memories. One of my favorite's is him helping me feed ducks at a local park when I was 5 years old. They terrified me when they swarmed around me so he picked me up, put me on the hood of his old red Ford, and we spent the afternoon, happily feeding the ducks. That was a good day.

We had some good days over the years, but sadly those were overshadowed by the bad. From now on, only the good will be mentioned. I believe that's best.

Daddy, through good times and bad, I always loved you. My hope for you now is to rest in peace . . . peace at last.

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Last update:
Wednesday, 02-Apr-2008 00:16:30 MDT

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