February 20th, 2013: In looking back at 1993 notes, my attempt to follow up on the story 20 years after the fact, I wrote. "I think this can be pretty much taken at face value." That is in reference to my original, 1973 entry.
He must have had more of a positive outlook on this day. I would have been in school, and mom likely was the one who drove him to Quincy that day. This would have been one of the earlier trips in the 90 mile, round trip, drive. As the need for the drives to Quincy grew in the frequency in his treatments did, friends stepped in to do the driving, and allow mom time at home, and with me. I likely would have gone to the store to help after school. Or gone home from school. I don't remember when they got back that day. But it was an "up and back" trip.
Looking back on all this, I wish I'd had the interest and courage to have really pursued the diary in much greater detail. To ask a lot more questions, of mom, dad, relatives and friends. I remember many more details than I wrote down back in 73'. But not as many as I'd hope for now. It would give dad's story a lot more depth. It would be especially interesting to know how mom was coping, what was going on inside her head?
Back then, no one knew I was writing stuff down. I had sort of an "office/hangout" in the basement. Most of my original writings were made from there. I wasn't necessarily hiding anything, or trying to be sneaky. I probably thought no one would see the need to do what I was doing. If I told mom or dad I was writing, and was told to stop, I would have. Not only because I would have been told to do so. But for the fear of getting caught after I'd been told to. As dad would say, "Don't make me have to tell you twice, boy."
I told mom of the diary years later. She didn't express a lot of interest in reading it. I didn't feel like asking her a lot of questions that would have helped fill in a lot more blanks now. For the most part, we didn't talk a lot about the sad times. Only the good. Too much looking back led to tears. Mom died in 2004.
It was always weird. For the most part, after dad died, mom was a loss 364 days out of the year. She would always pull herself together on Christmas day, to insure it would be the best day we could make of it. I was 180 degrees opposite. All right, 364 days a year, but a wreck on Christmas day.
|Dad, at Pine Lakes. 1967|