The Days Are Getting Shorter

September 7, 2004

Summer symbolizes the fullness of life for me. As a kid, I considered playing outside and catching lightning bugs long after dark as the best part of a lazy summer day. Perhaps it’s because I was born in July and can’t seem to get enough sunshine. My favorite day is June 21, the summer solstice—the longest day of the year. Unfortunately, the summer solstice is also the harbinger of the darkness to follow… the winter solstice.

I am generally an optimistic, happy person, but these days there is a sadness lingering in the shadows. The irony of the birth of a long-awaited child and the slow, but steady, decline of our father and grandfather does not escape my notice.

Mother was only 60 years old, far too young to grapple with the reality of death. She was ill for less than a year and stayed active until the last few months. In fact, she and Daddy went to Austria with GE two months before her death. She was cheerful, alert, and interested in the life around her. From the hospital, she called her friends and family “just to talk” and, I later realized, to say goodbye.

With Daddy, our experience is radically different. Through the years, he has said many goodbyes. Friends and family have gone ahead without him. He no longer walks through Thornton Acres, picking up abandoned cans and leaving them like a calling card on our porch. He stopped swimming at the old Dunnivant’s Mall, because he claimed that the chlorine in the water gave him the “itch.” He didn’t join the Quarterback Club last year. He doesn’t attend Shrine meetings or dance the jitterbug. Probably, the hardest was saying goodbye to the Alabama Crimson Tide football games.

However, he continues to amaze us. He buys Little Debbie’s and candy at Wal-Mart, giving them to an old high school friend whose son shares with classmates at the Opportunity Center. He frequents Piccadilly where the ladies know him and keep a watchful eye on him. Most days he takes a lunch of Tender’s chicken to a lady friend from church. He goes to an assisted living facility to visit a friend who now has Alzheimer’s. On his way home from Winn-Dixie, he often drops off a cantaloupe at the home of a war buddy. He fusses that the squirrels have eaten this year’s pecan crop, and he will not be able to supply the cooking needs of scores of ladies who depend on his generosity. He is excited about the birth of a new grandson and the wedding of his oldest grandson.

An American flag is proudly flown from his front porch on important and not-so important days. Next month Ted, Tim, and I are taking him to Washington, DC to visit the WWII Memorial. We request your prayers. These days the war is foremost on his mind. He regales us with tales from Kodiak, Alaska and France. He is rightfully proud of his service to his country. He tells every political pollster who calls that he is not a Democrat, a Republican, or an atheist. He is an American. They don’t call back.

And every Sunday, he goes to the cemetery. He takes fresh flowers cut from the yards of friends and strangers. He will leave his car idling in the middle of the street to cut pink flowers because pink was Mother’s favorite color.

Recently, I watched him at the store, diligently working in his puzzle book. He is frail, fragile, and befuddled. We often wonder if he is aware of his tenuous hold on life. I put my arms around him and asked, “Daddy, what in the world are we going to do?”

His eyes cleared as he replied, “The days are getting shorter.”