Hello to her, Goodbye to her.

Hello to her, Goodbye to her.
 
 
I remember this day so well. It was June 18, 1967 and my new baby girl was born. My wife and I were married only about a year at the time. It was supposed to be the best day of my life. But that event, which would change my life forever, was so much more. Kylie was born on Wednesday 4:32 p.m. She was beautiful. My mind exploded with the idea that I was part of this little life; that I helped to create this little person. I was so filled with joy that all I could do was laugh out loud.

My wife was resting peacefully so I went down to the hospital cafeteria to grab a bite to eat. Lord knows, I needed to refuel after I had spent my energy grasping this new fatherhood that I had discovered. It was there that I met him. Ken was a little older than I was. About 40 years of age, he looked well and fit. He was a very pleasant man with kind manners and a good sense of humor about him. We sort of bumped into each other at the checkout. With my euphoria, I started babbling to him about Kylie and my new adventure of being a father. He received me very well and with that I asked him to sit and have dinner with me.

“What is your baby’s name?” he asked.

“Her name is Kylie,” I said. “And she is just awesome!”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks, “I laughed, “I just can’t believe it. I’ve waited for this moment, for so long.”

He smiled while he listened intently about my dreams and wishes that I had for my child. I know now that I didn’t, at first, give him a chance to speak. I rattled endlessly about my happiness and provided little opportunity for his reflection. But he was very patient and didn't seem to mind all my interruptions and excitement. We sat there for quite a while and eventually I settled down and the conversation that I now remember perfectly began.

“My wife and I have one child,” he began. “Her name is Megan. My wife and I met long ago as babies, ourselves. Our parents were neighborhood friends and Ann, my wife, and I have known each other ever since I can remember. We grew up side by side, became kindergarten sweethearts and have been together ever since.”

“Awe, kindergarten!” I said butting in, “That will be a fun time.”

“Yeah, you will enjoy that” he said, “I remember when Megan started kindergarten…”


“What did that feel like?” I jumped in, “I mean, that first day she went?”

“I was a little scared for her and I think she was nervous too but, braver than I was.” He paused for a moment and said, “But there are many times to be seen before then. You will have some very good times and those that are not so good.”

“Not so good” I asked? “Like, what is 'not so good'?”

“Don’t worry about the ‘not so good’ stuff,” he pointed out, “life is not designed to be focused on the bad but, rather, pay attention to the good.”

“I understand what you mean, but for so long I feared that Kylie might not be born healthy or born deformed or something and now I only hope that she has a good life; the best that I can give her.”

“I can see that you have those ‘normal’ feelings that all of us experience as first time parents,” he began, “which is good… but don’t worry much over her future. She will find her way in the way she sees fit. You need only to guide her and spill onto her all the love you can. Never stop showing how much you love her and care about her and God will set the road forward for you.”

“I will!” I said directly.

We talked for what felt like hours. He told me about his daughter’s life and how she grew up. He spoke of her time being a little baby; when she did nothing but cry and caused what he said was “the occasional headache that required an aspirin helper”. He told me about when she started to crawl and pull herself about the floor, sometimes using the shag rug as a 'gripping tool' to move herself along.

“It was so funny” he laughed, “She would take a hold of the rug and pull herself forward with her arms to get where she wanted to go. She loved this little red scarf, you see, and we would set it a couple of feet in front of her and she would scoot herself to it. Just before she reached it, we would move it and she would eye-ball that scarf again and makes her way toward it again.”

I laughed and wanted to hear more as he continued with other memories.


“One time,” he said, “Just before we were to head off to school, she was looking for her book-bag. Funny thing was, was that with her coat on she couldn’t feel that she was already wearing it. She must have really been ‘on the ball’ that morning. But with the constant reminder, each morning, from us to get her bag she instinctively started looking for it.” He sat for a moment and chuckled to himself. “So seeing this ‘opportunity’,” he grinned, “I said ‘Megan! Where is your book-bag?’ and she looked at me and said in such an innocent and wondering voice: ‘I don’t knooooow!’”

He laughed out loud. “Oh these times… I wish I had a video camera!”

He chuckled as he told his stories and I found that I couldn’t help but laugh along with him. His demeanor was so pleasant and kind I was drawn to him like he as an uncle or father figure. I was taken by his good sense of humor and his love of life so much that I realized that now I was more listening to him than babbling about myself.

“I wanted so much for her, to see her grow,” he joyfully said, “anything that she took an interest in, I made a concentrated effort to help her with.”

I nodded showing my attention.

“One time she just started collecting locust hides” he began. “You know the skins.”

“Yeah, the skins that they shed,” I agreed.

“Yep those! Well, she just started picking them up and putting them on the top of her dresser.”

He crinkled his nose a bit. “You can imagine what a grave yard of dead bug skins can start to look like after a while,” he chuckled.

I laughed at that and said, “So what did you do?”

“I made her a 'bug box'.”


“A bug box?”

“Yes! A box for her bugs,” He replied. “We called it her 'bug collection.' It was simple. A beer flat with sheet of white paper glued to it. We went out and got one of those label machines so we could label each insect that we found. We also bought an 'insect dictionary' to find out the names.”

“That's such a good idea!” I added.

“The only rule that I had for her was that we would only find bugs that were already dead.” He pointed out, “I didn't want her to relate killing with seeking knowledge and she would have a hard time killing them anyway.”

He smiled at me and I imagined the scene for a moment.

“You must be one hell-of-a dad. I hope that I'm as good of a dad as you are.”

“You've just got to love 'em!” he point out. “That's the easiest and hardest part.”

“I understand that,” I agreed. “What parent couldn't?”

He told similar stories of her childhood adventures and about the times Megan knew as a teenager. How he reacted to her first date; it was trust that he gave her, not just a bunch of warnings. He told me about her driving experiences, the lessons he gave her on safe driving, and about the look on her face when she got her first car.

“It was an old thing,” he remarked. “Not too bad looking but not so fancy either.”

“Well, a car is a car, right?”

“Yeah, but I was a little worried at first that she may not like it; being as old as it was.”


“What happened?” I asked.

“It was Christmas,” he began, “and we saved this little box to the end for her to open.” He paused. “It was the keys to her car,” he continued. “I felt my stomach turning a little when she started to open it. But when she saw what it was, I received a hug that almost cracked my spinal cord.”

We both laughed out loud.

“Then,” he chuckled, “it was time to go outside and see it. It happened so fast; she literally burned the fabric off the rug trying to get to that old clunker.”

“What did she say about it?” I asked.

“I not really sure” he said smiling, “I could barely understand her while she was jumping up and down like that. But, to my relief, she liked it.”

“Didn't care that it was an old clunker?” I asked.

He smiled at me and said, “I realized at that time, that your children know that giving them your love doesn't necessarily mean that it has to come on a silver platter, or with mag wheels.”

He must have had hundreds of these stories and he remembered them so well. I started to ponder if I would know the same stories; would I have the ability to recall them with such warmth and vigor as he did? One after the other, he told of a memory filled with humor and joy. Suddenly I started to realize that I was looking into a mirror. A mirror looking into the future, showing events that I will have the pleasure of experiencing in my future days of parenting. Will I have the same fondness in my memories as he does? Will I realize this perfect scenario that I am listening to? Will I be free of pain and tragedy as he? But just in that moment I realized that he hadn't spoken of any disappointment, frustration, pain or tragedy. Was he an optimist? Maybe he viewed all things in a good light. Was he just lucky and had never known any suffering? I sat and listened to his colorful stories but started thinking in the back of my head about all those 'what ifs' and I felt some anxiety about it.

Waiting for an appropriate moment that had arrived I said, “So what are your views on punishment?”

“Punishment?” he returned.

“Yeah, I mean how should a parent correct their child?”

He sat there for a second and rubbed his chin. “Well...” he began slowly, “I hate it, myself.”

“So you don't punish?

“Yes” he injected. “I do, but not just to cause pain or discomfort but to reinforce a rule or lesson.”

“So you don't like whippings?”

“Show me a parent who does,” he said forcefully, “and I'll show you a person who shouldn't be a parent!”

“Well, that's not exactly what I meant,” I replied.

“I know you didn't,” he jumped in, “but beating is not my style, although I have had to spank from time to time.”

“Tell me your style,” I beckoned, “so that I might learn the right way. I wouldn't want to get this part wrong.”

“Well first off don't just punish but show why the punishment is there. I remember when I was a boy and got into trouble…” He said chuckling, “and believe - you me I was a master of that. My father would beat me silly. Funny thing is that for most of my beatings, I can remember the beating itself but not the reason that I was beaten in the first place.”

I was taken aback by this statement because I remembered once when I got into trouble at school. My father was furious with me and I got the spanking of a lifetime. Now that I'm a grown man, I remember very well the striping lashes of pain stretching across my back from his belt but for the life of me I cannot remember what I did at school. The idea that he and I had something in common, and that it was of an unpleasant time, moved me even further toward figuring out how to get him talking about his views. Maybe it was none of my business but at the time he had become a wealth of knowledge that I needed to tap so that I would be properly prepared.

He went on to talk about punishment and his views of it. I agreed then and still do now with his way of doing things. When a child is given trust, respect and love that child will develop into a trusting, loving and respectful person. When lessons are taught and the mind encouraged to succeed then these attributes will be present. Punish if you must but not just in pain. This was his way, and I hold it as dear to me as if he were my own father who taught me.

The conversation ended over punishment and we both sat there fumbling over our food. I thought at the time we were both reflecting over the past hour with all those memories floating about us. We sat and nibbled on our half-eaten dinners with an occasional comment about “this tastes good” or “that's not too bad.” As we finished, he took a sip of his coffee and began to rub his forehead.

“Ya know,” he started, “I've had some good times and bad times in my life but I thank God for what I've been blessed with.” He paused for a moment. “Everything has a meaning. It has to be this way for some reason.”

“What do you mean?” I asked confused.

“May I give you a piece of advice?”

“Yes, of course!”

“I've been sitting here ripping your ears off with my stories about Megan. I love her with all my heart. I knew when she was born, so many years ago, that we'd have our ups and downs. But I decided that no matter what happens in my life that this birth was going to be a new beginning for me.”

Still a bit confused, I just looked back and listened.

He continued, “My advice is that you keep close to your heart the good times. You will know and enjoy wonderful times with your wife and new baby.”

“Ok.” I said.

“Just remember that life was designed to focus on the good,” he added.

“I will.”

About that time his wife appeared. She was flushed and it seemed like her face was swollen. She didn't look at me at all and simply told her husband that the doctors were ready. She bent over gave him a kiss and he assured her that he would be up shortly. Then she abruptly walked away.

“I see that your wife is not feeling well.” I said assuming that she was the reason they were at the hospital.

“Yes,” he said lightly. “These last couples of days have been hard on her.”

“What is she sick from?” I asked.

“Nothing, she's not sick at all.”

“Oh,” I said, “your daughter, Megan?”

“Yes” he replied.

“I guess you'll be on your way to visit her then, right?” I asked.

He stood up and shook my hand and thanked me for my company. As he looked down at me I noticed tears forming in his eyes. He cleared his throat and smiled.

“You have come here to welcome a new life,” he said softy, “to say your hellos to your new baby. I have come here to watch a passing.” He stopped for a brief moment and looked straight ahead. Just before he walked away he said, “I've come to say my good-byes.”


 
 
 
 
Kactus Berry