Something To Hold On To
A Memoir
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Living with a ninety-year-old dad was like dancing with a partner. Sometimes we were in sync with the music and each other. Sometimes we stepped on each other's toes. Still, the dance went on. Dad had two standard replies if someone asked, "How are you?" "Well, I got out of bed this morning," and, "Could be better, or could be worse, too." Life was better when he spent months at his camp on Lake Penage, hammering, sawing, and chopping wood. He would take the grandchildren out fishing, and a Swedish song would float over the water. Life was worse when he had to sell this forty-year-old camp. Th...
Living with a ninety-year-old dad was like dancing with a partner. Sometimes we were in sync with the music and each other. Sometimes we stepped on each other's toes. Still, the dance went on. Dad had two standard replies if someone asked, "How are you?" "Well, I got out of bed this morning," and, "Could be better, or could be worse, too." Life was better when he spent months at his camp on Lake Penage, hammering, sawing, and chopping wood. He would take the grandchildren out fishing, and a Swedish song would float over the water. Life was worse when he had to sell this forty-year-old camp. The world was a better place when we took a trip to his home in Finland and stayed with his brother. It was worse when I bought a property on Manitoulin Island. He disagreed with the purchase and refused to visit my camp for six months. Dad collapsed shortly after his ninety-eighth birthday. We all think he decided it was time to go. Life had filled his cup to the brim.
