The renewal form for our dad’s membership in
MENSA, the organization for truly brainy people, arrived in my mailbox last
week. On the wall in his den, framed in
dignified and serious black metal, hangs his MENSA certificate, a graphic
testament to his IQ and to the value he places on intelligence. Our mother’s 98-year-old cousin candidly states
that Dad is the smartest man she has ever known. She is discriminating and has had a long time
to know people, so her tribute is notable.
Our dad will be 86 in November, and he has dementia. He forgets that our mother died 3 years
ago. He gets confused and wonders if he
has to go to work, forgetting that he retired three decades ago. Our dad has become “old-old.” Explored by Mary Pipher in Another Country:
Navigating the Emotional Terrain of Our Elders, the factors that move a
person from “young-old” to “old-old” are loss of a spouse, retirement, and
changes in health. Pipher believes that
the loss of health is the critical factor.
With the onset of dementia and the subsequent loss of his mental acuity,
our dad made the shift earlier than expected.
On Father’s Day, we will celebrate our dad. In the years since retirement, ties, belts
and dress shirts are no longer appropriate.
There are no more bottles of
Drambuie or power tools. No more waxing
of his car as an act of loving service.
He doesn’t have a car any longer.
When he stopped smoking pipes, we were all at a loss for ideas. Instead, we will celebrate with a new pair of
warm pajamas because he gets cold quicker than he did when he used to fish for Northern
pike. We will recall the adventure and
integrity of his life. He is an amazing
man who flew B-52s and worked in the “Mole Hole,” deep underground at SAC
Headquarters in Nebraska. During his workday he was in close proximity
to the Red Telephone. His flying missions,
complete with an atomic bomb, were the stuff of which movies could be made. Even with that ominous cargo, he managed to
bring me dolls from every country he visited.
He taught me how to pick dandelions, how to study, how to fix things,
and the meaning of being a good neighbor.
He improved every home in which we ever lived. He told great bedtime stories about Sam the
Monkey. He tolerated our pets from dogs
to squirrels to roosters. And he hated the cow that he had to milk every
morning as a young boy living outside Atlanta.
This man with the high IQ was a participant
in the dawning of the computer age. He
proudly walked me across the raised, hollow floor and through the cold, massive
rooms at Martin Marietta filled with computers the size of washing machines surrounded
by reams of FORTRAN punch cards. He
encouraged me to study computer science, and he supported women’s success in
the workforce. I learned from him that
there were options and opportunities. When
I chose dance instead, he drove across Florida
to see performances. Years later, he
dedicatedly drove his granddaughters to their Saturday ballet class where I was
their teacher. From behind the glass
window dividing the studio from the waiting area, he watched us all plie and tendu and sometimes
he laughed.
He always went the extra mile. He would come to your aide if you were sick
or if your car broke down or if something needed repair. He was there to be helpful. He helped my brother as he was dying, and
afterwards, something in our dad was never quite the same.
When I call he still says, “Hi Kid.” He makes me feel young and hopeful. Many of the things I love most about my
husband, I love most about my dad. They
are both very brainy. Happy Father’s
Day, Daddy, and your membership card to MENSA is in the mail.
