Remembering the father

One of my most favorite memories of Dad was back when I was about five, I think. I don't think Melissa was born just yet. Julie was out working (she wasn't Mom just yet, either), and it was nighttime, getting close to mine and Corry's bedtime. Dad brought us into the living room. Corry and I were in our pajamas, and Dad had us sitting next to him, one to each side, on the couch. He didn't want us sitting on his lap because he needed that space for his drawing pad. He asked us for a number. We gave him one. He wrote it on the drawing pad, then proceeded to draw on and around that number until it wasn't a number anymore, but something else, like a car or an animal. I kept trying to give numbers while he was busy drawing or just to cut Corry off (I was a jerk like that). Dad kept telling me to wait my turn and be patient; in fact, he was being very patient with us. (At this time, he had been under the disease for around ten years. The patience was a major feat. It would be another thirteen or so years before the disease would be discovered.) The only specific sketch I remembered was the number 100. Dad turned that into a little house.

When Dad was freed of the disease a few years back, he lost all his weight and temper and regained his sanity and wits. The result was that he was pretty much given a second, better life to live the rest of his days, but at the cost of knowing what his hands had wrought. There is intense joy in him, but also intense regret. I wanted to share this because not everything in my childhood was bad and terrible; in fact, there were a lot of good times, and those should also be remembered.