June 19, 2011
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My approach to family has always been eclectic and based more on heart than on similar features.
“Dad” to me was a fellow I called Fred. The father of my dearest friend, my connection with Fred was as an auxiliary family member. Since we had no long history to undo, his treatment of me was always supportive. Our relationship blossomed after his wife, Mildred, took sick and I rallied to support him through phone calls and letters. Fiercely independent, and unusually healthy for a man in his 80’s, Fred accepted my long distant friendship with gratitude and cheerfulness. He would report with resolute acceptance on Mildred’s failing condition, and offset the sad parts with some pleasantry regarding the weather, his garden or some interesting anecdote about someone he bumped into in town. A great storyteller, his memories were rich and colorful. He was also a great listener. And he always seemed to have a way of easing my burden by his mere attention. He liked that I am a letter carrier, he joked that I “peddled the mail!” He also said I was “his favorite redhead after Rita Hayward!”
Fred wrote letters back. One day, he wrote and asked me if I would call him “Dad.” “Wow,” I thought. “I’ve got a Dad!”
After Mildred died in Spring of 2002, I continued to write and call Dad with regular frequency. He began a series of journals to Mildred to work through his intense grief. Every night he would write his wife a letter and tell her of his day and express how much he missed her. Just one side of a page, Dad wrote in the evening just before bed when his sadness was compounded by loneliness. I would shop for lovely journals and anticipate approximately when he would need a new one. I would look through whatever photos I could discover to find a lovely image of Mildred to place on the cover of each new journal. Dad kept up this writing practice for the next 5 years.
At 96, with congestive heart failure, he decided he wanted to visit family in Montana. I called him practically every night to encourage him and keep his spirits up. After 4 days- having the “time of his life,” he boarded the plane home and had a heart attack. He did what he set out to accomplish. Oddly enough, he died on Father’s Day 2007.
I am always grateful to my Dad named Fred. He gave me the caring father figure I never had. I have his photos all around my home and I relate thanks to him when something generous happens. My friend and I will say together: “Thank you Fred!”
One of his favorite slogans was written on a napkin: “Be your own hero!” I’d say, he did just that!
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