My father is by my side. His cane rests just outside his reach, in the lap of an aluminum chair. We
are tucked in the corner of the back row, behind a succession of synchronized
seniors–a line of ladies dressed in sensible shoes and forgiving waistbands.
Each turns, twisting to catch a glimpse. “Look at him go," says a lady in
red. "He's really something.”
Although my father is
known for having two left feet, his stooped, stiff Parkinson's posture coupled
with his unsteady shuffle and hand tremors fuse with the strong Latin beat. He
is a dancing machine.
“Zumba!” shouts the
instructor as she shimmies her shoulders and steps left. Her enthusiasm is
contagious and we do our best to keep up.
Everything about this is
new to us—the music, the movement, but mostly the memoires shared between a father
and daughter.
Growing up, I didn't
spend a lot of time with Dad unless you count riding quietly in the back seat
of his car. I don’t remember living with him. My parents divorced when I
was two years old. My mother packed all we had into a
1959 Studebaker and moved us four hours away.
Dad was always working,
even when I came to visit. On most nights we'd eat supper together at
Nielson's Diner or the Chinese restaurant.
"Let me check out
back," Dad would say, "see if I spot any cats."
Dad liked to tease me.
He'd say they used cat instead of chicken at the Panda Pavilion, so I always
ordered beef.
He ate fast and chewed
with his mouth open. He never put his napkin on his lap or sat up straight like
my mother told me to.
At the diner, Dad let me
drink vanilla milk shakes. I'd get a 7-Up at the Chinese place and if
I followed him to the pub, he'd order me a Shirley Temple.
"Two cherries,
please," I'd say, always the polite child.
Once he ordered me a pine
float. Everyone laughed when the bartender handed me a tall glass of water with
a cocktail napkin and a spiked toothpick floating on top.
During winter holidays
we'd drive six hours to go skiing. I don't remember skiing with him but
sometimes we'd ride the chairlift together—a slow, windy climb to the peak.
"You cold there,
Pistol Pete?" he'd ask. I had no idea who Pistol Pete was, but it told me
he'd rather have had a boy.
"No, sir," I
lied with my braids and nose hairs iced over and my fingers and toes frozen
numb.
When I reached the bottom
of the mountain and couldn't find him, I knew to look in the bar. He’d have the
crowd entertained with his quick wit and Irish charm, sharing adventures of
marathons run around the world—more than 100 in total.
During one of those winter
vacations, he took me to a drive-in movie theater. Love Story was
playing and I thought Ali MacGraw was the most beautiful woman who ever lived.
I sat behind the steering
wheel of Dad's navy blue model 2002 BMW–sobbing uncontrollably at Ali’s untimely
death, while my father lounged on a double bed at the Howard Johnson motor
lodge. A pile of quarters kept the magic fingers moving as he watched TV, ate
apple pie, and sucked down cans of Miller beer.
When the movie ended and
he didn't come for me, I considered driving the car back to the hotel but my
feet didn't quite reach the pedals. Instead, I walked alongside the
highway, following a path of headlights from oncoming traffic.
But here at the senior
center, Dad makes me promise not to leave his side.
“Stretch your hands up
high and move your hips, now shake, shake, shake it to the right!” bellows the
Zumba instructor.
“You're doing great,
Dad,” I assure him.
“I farted, Shannon,” he
tells me.
“Did you crap your
pants?"
“No, just farted."
“Good for you, way to
hold back.”
This is not my favorite
topic, but discussing his bodily functions is part of our now daily
conversations.
I never expected him to master a soulful salsa when I signed us
up for the class, but I am collecting as many memories as I can. My father’s
Parkinson’s disease has slowed him down enough for us to finally get to know
each other.
