Buried deep in my wallet are a photograph of my father taken in September 1955 at our family cottage and his business card, on the back of which he has written his name and address in blue ballpoint ink.
Some days I have an awareness that my mother - and even more my father who died way back in 1978 - are slipping away. Then I set aside some time to remember them, the expressions on their faces, the way they spoke, and I am heartened by their presence and our love for one another.
I can identify with your talismen (isn't there a plural for talisman? Talismans?). I lost my father at age 34(mine), just before I finished surgical training. I SO looked forward to interacting with him as a peer (he was an OB/GYN), a regret I have carried for some 30 years. However, he lives with me through a few treasured items. I have a mug with his signature ingraved on it. I have a few of his beloved fountain pens (being a leftie, I can't use them without smearing the still-wet ink all over the page) and a few knick knacks from his top dresser drawer into mine. I am not invoking longer life by them; while I don't wish to hasten the day, I don't fear it either. If I make it to July this year, I'll have outlived him. Being my father's son, there's no guarantee of that; I seem to have inherited the same constellation of conditions by which he made an untimely exit; modern pharmacology has spared me the same rate of accrual of downstream effects of those conditions, however. I like the fact that you have preserved these tokens all these years; they help keep your father's memory fresh in your mind, which is the best we can do with our memories; keep them alive and fresh.
Thank you for your touching and poignant recounting of your childhood and the loving and reciprocal relationship with your parents. What a wonderful souvenir you’ve carried for so many years in your wallet. How remarkable that your memories of both parents continue to give you feelings of security and comfort in challenging times. As an octogenarian myself I am conscious of the courage I need to deal with tough stuff.
Profound insights into your lived experience with life and death. My husband died at age 59, and I can barely believe he is gone for so many years. Still, he is and I am still here. Sigh.
I appreciate your thoughts regarding the talismans which keep our parents close, but whose meaning will be different to our sons and daughters. I'll let them do the "letting go" or keep them with their new meanings. I'll be 87 in May; my youngest of four children is 53.
Ruth, your beautiful essay made me cry - again. You show so much in few words, a glimpse of your beloved father in his white shirt, your mother surrendering to the sun, your long marriage, your sons, your own lively, indefatigable self - and the sense we all have of time passing, of making the most of what we have left, and cherishing the love that keeps us alive. Brava.
You make a poignant case for clinging to talismans. And speaking of clinging, please keep clinging to banisters, stepping carefully on curbs, and sprinkling walnuts on your breakfast yogurt - so we can continue enjoying your writing!
This is beautiful, Ruth. (I have the privilege of being one of Ruth's daughter-in-laws. She is my model for how to live life with curiosity, humour, engagement--and that daily sprinkle of ground flaxseed). xo
Ruth, how wonderful that you have kept those talismans all those years. May they continue to inspire, remind, and comfort you for years to come!
Wonderful, wise words. Thank you.
Some days I have an awareness that my mother - and even more my father who died way back in 1978 - are slipping away. Then I set aside some time to remember them, the expressions on their faces, the way they spoke, and I am heartened by their presence and our love for one another.
I can identify with your talismen (isn't there a plural for talisman? Talismans?). I lost my father at age 34(mine), just before I finished surgical training. I SO looked forward to interacting with him as a peer (he was an OB/GYN), a regret I have carried for some 30 years. However, he lives with me through a few treasured items. I have a mug with his signature ingraved on it. I have a few of his beloved fountain pens (being a leftie, I can't use them without smearing the still-wet ink all over the page) and a few knick knacks from his top dresser drawer into mine. I am not invoking longer life by them; while I don't wish to hasten the day, I don't fear it either. If I make it to July this year, I'll have outlived him. Being my father's son, there's no guarantee of that; I seem to have inherited the same constellation of conditions by which he made an untimely exit; modern pharmacology has spared me the same rate of accrual of downstream effects of those conditions, however. I like the fact that you have preserved these tokens all these years; they help keep your father's memory fresh in your mind, which is the best we can do with our memories; keep them alive and fresh.
A moving piece. Thanks for sharing.
John Donne said it best: "One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die."
Thank you for your touching and poignant recounting of your childhood and the loving and reciprocal relationship with your parents. What a wonderful souvenir you’ve carried for so many years in your wallet. How remarkable that your memories of both parents continue to give you feelings of security and comfort in challenging times. As an octogenarian myself I am conscious of the courage I need to deal with tough stuff.
Archie Fineberg
Profound insights into your lived experience with life and death. My husband died at age 59, and I can barely believe he is gone for so many years. Still, he is and I am still here. Sigh.
What a beautifully written piece and the digital photo captures the essence of it so well. I would definitely say “aging well” is very much a mindset.
Bernie
Ruth,
I appreciate your thoughts regarding the talismans which keep our parents close, but whose meaning will be different to our sons and daughters. I'll let them do the "letting go" or keep them with their new meanings. I'll be 87 in May; my youngest of four children is 53.
Ruth, your beautiful essay made me cry - again. You show so much in few words, a glimpse of your beloved father in his white shirt, your mother surrendering to the sun, your long marriage, your sons, your own lively, indefatigable self - and the sense we all have of time passing, of making the most of what we have left, and cherishing the love that keeps us alive. Brava.
You make a poignant case for clinging to talismans. And speaking of clinging, please keep clinging to banisters, stepping carefully on curbs, and sprinkling walnuts on your breakfast yogurt - so we can continue enjoying your writing!
Peter, don't forget the ground flax!!
OK, providing that all this healthy fibre is properly neutralized by a Danish.
Beautiful and wise. Thank you!
This is beautiful, Ruth. (I have the privilege of being one of Ruth's daughter-in-laws. She is my model for how to live life with curiosity, humour, engagement--and that daily sprinkle of ground flaxseed). xo
Michele Murray and Ruth Miller: The Post and your reply are filled with beauty-filling love.
You both have moved me and enriched my soul with your family and mutual love.
Beautiful 💞
Thank you. You've touched my heart, stirred my memories. We hold our talismans close.