My literacy narrative

This will be a record for me lately–two posts in one day! But I wanted to share with y’all something that I recently became aware was available.

At the CCCC in April, I agreed to allow Ohio State’s Digital Archive of Literacy Narratives to collect my literacy narrative. My narrative was recorded right then, in the middle of the conference; we were in the hallway near one of the elevators, which you’ll see coming and going throughout the video. It’s a long video–30 minutes–but I discuss many things I’ve blogged about, including my grandma’s influence on my life and my work. I also talk in more detail about things I’ve alluded to on the blog, such as my time at the University of Cincinnati and how I decided to become an academic. So, if you’re curious about my thoughts on literacy–or if you just want to know what I sound like or look like–follow the above link to my literacy narrative, which will enlighten you on those subjects and more.

As you will see if you download the video, it was a very emotional experience; not only did I cry during the recording, but my interviewer and I both cried afterwards. It was also a moment that brought home for me that I really need to write a book. This experience is what gave me the final push to start work on the edited collection on Appalachian literacies, and it’s why I’ve decided that I will write my own, single-authored book. It is something that I simply have to do, and sharing my narrative is what brought me to that realization.

When the First Voice You Hear Is Not Your Own

My mom and me, in front an old building in Cades Cove, a section of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

The past couple of weeks have been nuts. The injury happened a few days before we left for a vacation in Gatlinburg, Tennessee with my parents and one of my brothers and sisters-in-law. We were out-of-state from July 23 through the 29th. Ever since, I’ve been trying to catch up on research (finished an article and am currently working on replying to prospective contributors to the edited collection), teaching prep, and housework, all while dealing with the foot, which isn’t healing as quickly or as well as I had hoped.

But I wanted to take a few minutes today and blog about my voice–more specifically, my accent. I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio to parents who were part of the “Great Migration” out of Appalachian Kentucky during the 1950s; Kentucky lost thousands from its population during this time. While my parents had lost much of their Appalachian accents by the time I was born in 1973, they retained (and still retain) some of the accent, as well as regional sentence structure and colloquialisms.  For example, my parents replace the short “e” sound in three-letter words (pen, get) with the short “i” sound (pin, git); thus, if my mother asks me to hand her a pen for writing or a pin for sewing, it will sound the same. Sentence structure differences include use of an indirect object that is otherwise implied (“I need to get me one of them” as opposed to “I need to get one of them”) and the use of be + -ing verbs. In the next paragraph, you’ll see me write “I shouldn’t be worrying” instead of “I shouldn’t worry.”

Finally, I’ll share my two favorite colloquialisms used by my mom and grandma, ones that I use on a regular, if not daily, basis: “It’s all over but the shoutin” and “I won’t look for ya ’til I see ya a-comin.” If you’re wondering what these phrases mean, here are brief explanations:

• It’s all over but the shoutin’: a situation has ended, though there may be some lingering effects or further “official” action taken. For example, if she were still alive, my grandma would have said this phrase upon hearing that the Congress had reached a deal on the debt ceiling. It wasn’t official yet, since the President hadn’t signed it, but it was virtually over. Thus, it was all over but the shoutin’ (i.e. the President’s signature). In case you’re wondering what this phrase references, it draws on experience in “spirit-filled” (Pentecostal) churches, where a service might be over, but churchgoers are still shouting and feeling the effects of the Holy Ghost for a while afterwards.
• Don’t look for me ’til you see me a-comin’: I think the meaning of this one is pretty obvious. It is very similar to the more common idiom “don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” though this phrase specifically references people and travel. When I would tell Grandma that I wasn’t sure when I would be home again from college, for example, she would respond with, “Well, I won’t look for ya ’til I see ya a-comin’.” This was her way of telling me I shouldn’t be worrying about disappointing her if I couldn’t visit as soon as we both hoped, because she wouldn’t get her hopes up until she knew for sure I was on my way.

I have the strongest Appalachian accent of any of my brothers and sisters; at times, I think my accent is even stronger than that of my parents. I attribute this difference to all the time I spent with my grandma. She moved in with us at the end of my junior year of high school, and she died when I was 24. I lived with her and my parents until I got married, so we  lived together for nearly six years. Because her accent was quite pronounced and I spend a good deal of time with her, I picked up on it far more than my siblings, who had long been out of the house at that point; my brothers moved out when I was 8, and my sister followed when I was 11. 

I also think my emotional identification with Grandma played a role in me making my voice more like hers. I don’t think this was a conscious decision on my part; the only times I have ever consciously played up my accent have been when I was either auditioning for a play that required that accent of me or when I was trying to imitate one of my relatives’ ways of speaking.

That said, when I was younger, I hated the way I sounded. It shames me greatly now to admit that, but it’s true. I was teased a lot at school for sounding like a “stupid hillbilly” and a hick, and those wounds took a long time to heal. I’ve written about this incident before, but it bears repeating: when my accent faded a little upon beginning college, my mother commented on the change. I responded by saying, “Thank God I don’t sound like a stupid hick anymore.” I can feel my face burning as I type this, because I am so ashamed of what I said and the pain I caused my mother. My insult was directed not only at my own voice, but also hers, since we shared that accent. It pains me to this day that I hurt her like that.

As I have grown older, I have come to love my accent and the Appalachian-ness of my speech. It is part of who I am, and I’m proud of my identity as an Urban Appalachian. My voice serves to tie to my past and my loved ones who have gone on, especially my grandma. My voice is inextricably tied to my identity, not only as an Appalachian, but as a scholar who works on issues surrounding Appalachia.

I will note, however, that I have noticed my Appalachian accent fading the longer I live away from other Appalachians, which makes me sad. I also know I de-emphasize the Appalachian-ness of my speech when I teach, sometimes consciously, sometimes not. I have heard enough bigoted comments from students  going back almost 20 years–to my student teaching days–that I know some students automatically deduct 50 points from my IQ as soon as I open my mouth.

I have to admit that, when I’m in the classroom, I do make a concerted effort to say put instead of putt (in my usual way of speaking, those words are interchangeable), get instead of git, and going to instead of gonna. I monitor my speech in departmental and other university meetings as well. I don’t feel quite as “on guard” about my speech around some of my colleagues and classes, so I do relax a bit in those situations; still, though, it’s just not the same.

I was aware of all of this before I went on this trip with my family, but being in Appalachia, surrounded by people with accents like mine–or even more pronounced–really brought these points home to me. Once I got to Gatlinburg and started hobbling around town in my boot, talking to the hotel clerks, other visitors, shopkeepers, etc., I couldn’t get over how relieved I felt to hear people who sounded like me and mine.

The voice in my head that whispers to me to monitor my speech–the voice that I’ve gotten so used to that I barely even notice it anymore–went silent. It was as if I had slipped off a heavy coat that I didn’t even necessarily realize I was wearing; the relief was truly that palpable. I could breathe deeply for the first time in years.

I know that as a highly-educated, white woman with the markers of the middle class, I am privileged in ways many are not. But my Appalachian-ness, particularly when it comes to my speech, gives me a small reminder of what it is like to not have that kind of privilege, to live in a world where people think your inherent worth is less than theirs, simply because of who you are. Every day I live with a voice that “corrects” my speech, that whispers to me, “They’ll think you’re stupid if you say it that way.” I know those who live with less privilege than I have to listen to external voices that echo inside their heads, voices that call into question their dress, their hair, their complexion, and so many other things that I don’t have to worry about (that’s how privilege works).

This trip  was a powerful reminder of the virtues of solidarity and why it can be restorative to be surrounded by those with whom you share a particular identity marker. It’s the one time, as least for me, that the voice that is not my own is silenced.

I’m Not There

Lately I seem to be spending more time apologizing for my lack of blogging than actually blogging.

It’s been a tough month. I came down with bronchitis within hours of my last post, which took me out for about a week; then my online class started. I am online (and blogging) so much for the course that, in the little free time I have, I don’t really want to blog here or be online much at all.

I’m not sleeping well, either, which isn’t helping. I keep waking up around 4 a.m., due to nightmares. Tonight’s nightmare involved bedbugs (shudder). Rather than a good night’s sleep, I’m basically getting a few naps: a shift that starts anywhere from 11pm-1am and ends around 4am, then a second shift that starts around 7am and, depending on whether or not G is working, ends between 8 and 10 am. It’s no way to live.

Since I mentioned it just now, I’ll change the subject: G has started working again. It’s not too steady right now, but he’s working with the Amish (kind of funny that I wrote that post back in March). He’s done a little construction for one guy, and next week he’s going to start pouring concrete with somebody else. It sounds like the concrete guy should have a lot of work for G, which is a good thing. He needs to be working, for financial and emotional reasons.

And I’ll just add, in the spirit of the linked post: the concrete guy has a smart phone. G says he uses it to check the weather radar, so he can know whether or not to pour concrete that day.

Obviously, G going to back to work affects childcare. M is in school until June 13, so she’s covered for now, but P’s preschool ended last week and wouldn’t be enough childcare anyway. The preschool has a summer program that start this past week, and P’s going to that. He loves it, which is a relief. He is going there for about 15 hours  a week, which allows me to get some work done for my online course; later this summer, I’ll use the time to write. By that point, M will be out of school, but she has a couple of camps to go to. I can also send her to the program with P, since they take school age kids during the summer.

Almost 6 a.m. I should go read for a little bit and then try to get some more sleep. Wish me luck.

Thirteen

My grandma, the woman I have always looked up to.

Thirteen years ago today, as I held her hand and whispered my love to her, my grandma died.

Every year I mark this anniversary with a post about my grandma. It is something I feel compelled to do. I think this is partly because, with each passing year, more and more of the people who knew her die. I feel compelled to talk about her, to remember, so that she is not forgotten. I suspect I also do this so that I do not forget her, not that I ever could. But this is one way I keep her with me.

Interestingly enough, however, I have not actually talked about her at all today. I am often more comfortable with processing things by writing about them instead of talking about them, and today was one of those days. I wanted to be with my thoughts and then have time to craft my words.

I was thinking as I was driving home from therapy this morning that my life would be unrecognizable to her in many ways. Grandma would be proud of all that I have accomplished–so proud–but the privileges I have as a highly educated woman of the 21st century would be unfathomable to her.

My grandma was born in 1908 in Lewis County, Kentucky. She did not attend school after the eight grade, because “girls didn’t go to high school.” She learned how to be a farm wife, and by 16 she was married. Her husband abused her, beating her so violently that she lost two pregnancies during their marriage.  When she was nineteen, she left him, returning to my great-grandparents’ farm and eventually divorcing her abuser.  At twenty-one, she married my grandpa, and she went on to bear four children during the Depression.  When times were especially difficult, she farmed with the men, tying a baby to her back as she cut and stripped tobacco—dirty, hot, and tiring work made all the more difficult by the added weight of a child.

I think often of the courage it took for Grandma, as a 19-year-old girl in 1927 northeastern Kentucky, to leave her abuser and return to her parents’ home with the hope that they would take her in; given the culture of the time, it certainly could have been expected for her parents to refuse her, since her “place” was with her husband. I think of the courage it took for her to live as she did, in grinding poverty almost all of her life. To work alongside her husband, doing “man’s work” to make sure her children were fed and clothed. To suffer miscarriages and a stillbirth that nearly claimed her own life. To bury two of the four children whom she birthed and raised to adulthood. To outlive all of her siblings, as well as her husband of sixty years. To be diagnosed with cancer within months of his death, then to leave the hills of Kentucky–the only home she had ever known–to move in with her daughter’s family in a strange, frightening city. To live for another eight years before finally succumbing to cancer.

My grandma was a tremendously strong, tough woman, and I do my best to live up to her example. Although my challenges seem ridiculously small in comparison to hers, I find strength in her fortitude. That is part of her legacy to me.

Another part of the legacy with which she left me was the development of a feminist worldview. Although my grandma certainly never identified as such, I took on the label at a very young age–probably between the ages of 12 and 14. How could I not, given her example? While Grandma refused to discuss the details of her first marriage, the abusive nature of the relationship was an open secret in the family.

Once, when I was in college, I did an oral history project on the impact of the women’s movement over three generations of women in my family; I interviewed my grandma and my mom, and I reflected on my own life. When I interviewed Grandma, she told me that her first husband had “mistreated” her, adding, “Nobody deserves to be treated that a-way, Sara–nobody.” She also told me that when she left, her chickens followed her down the road, and she was glad because she liked her chickens.

That is all she said, and yet it was the most she ever said on the subject to anyone in my family, including her own daughter (my mother). I know this because my mother told me Grandma had never talked to anyone about it at all, except for my grandpa (we assume, anyway). I don’t why she stayed silent for so many years–shame? Fear? Anger? A reluctance to return to a painful time in her life? In all likelihood, it was a combination of these emotions.

What Grandma and my mother did talk about with me extensively and for as long as I can remember was the need for me to get an education. They were both absolutely insistent on this point–especially my grandma–and I know my grandma’s experience of abuse is why. Grandma would tell me again and again that I should never be dependent on a man, that women need a way out of a “bad situation” (yes, always the euphemisms–mistreated, bad situation, etc), and that education was the way out. With an education, I would be able to provide for myself and any children I might have.

Is it any wonder that I self-identified as a feminist so young, or that I came to value education so much? I don’t think I could ever be a stay-at-home-parent, because my grandma’s words would constantly ring in my ears: “Never be dependent on a man, Sara Ann. You have to be able to take care of yourself.”

I learned many things from my grandma; although she had to leave school at an early age, she loved to learn. She was an avid reader, and she wrote in her diary every day until her hands were so gnarled from arthritis that she could no longer hold a pen. She was creative, as she was an extremely talented quilter, seamstress, and cook; she also made wine until late in her life. She was a woman of many interests and talents, and she had an abundant curiosity.

Most of all, she didn’t really give a damn what anybody else thought. I think I loved that about her the most. She did not go out of her way to be rude to people–she wasn’t one of those old white ladies who think they can say whatever they want because they’re old white ladies–but she did what needed to be done, whether it was “nice” or not. She also had no qualms about letting people know what she thought, if the situation demanded it. My parents described her as “ornery”; I would describe her as forthright and brave. It takes a lot of courage, especially as a woman in this culture–where there is so much pressure to “make nice”–to live the way she did.

I feel so lucky to have had her with me for the first 24 years of my life. I am so lucky to have her example to draw on for the rest of my life.

I’m Back–For Now

Sorry for the silence around here. I was hit hard by end of semester grading, illness, and the holidays.

I finished my grading last Sunday (the 19th), and pretty much the instant after I submitted my grades, my ears started hurting and I could literally feel the sinus pressure building. I went to the doctor the next day, the 20th, and had it confirmed–infections in both ears and a sinus infection, too.

Because I had been so busy with the end of the semester, I had to finish my Christmas shopping while sick. Schlepping around Fort Wayne while feeling so miserable was no fun, and my lack of energy made everything take longer. At least I had almost all of the kids’ and parents’ shopping done at that point; it was really just G for whom I needed presents. Oh, and wrapping–I wrapped a lot of presents.

Why was I doing all of the wrapping? Because G got sick, too! It hit him a day or two after I got it, so at that point I was the one capable of doing the wrapping. Oh, and M and P were also sick. P and I went to the dr on the 20th; G and M went on the 22nd. The girls had sinus and ear infections; the boys just had the sinus infections.

The 22nd was our anniversary–15 years. G took me out for a very nice dinner, and we had a wonderful evening together, in spite of how awful we both felt. Then, two days later, it was Christmas Eve. We went out to dinner as a family and then went to church. P didn’t last long in the service; he was way too excited about Santa Claus to be able to sit still.

We spent Christmas morning at home, then we left that afternoon to visit our families in Cincinnati. Saturday and Sunday were extremely rough–I felt awful. I developed a wicked cough (thank you, asthma), and some female issues complicated things, too. By Sunday evening I was finally feeling human again.

Because I was under the weather, our visit to Cincy was pretty low-key, but I enjoyed the time with my parents. The kids had a blast, especially P–he absolutely adores my dad–and I have to admit that it was nice to be fussed over by my mom when I felt so terrible Saturday night. Mom told me something hot would help, so she brewed some gunpowder tea (what my dad has drunk every morning for as long as I can remember). I hadn’t had any of that for a long time, and it tasted wonderful. I spent a lot of time simply watching the kids play, reading, and talking with my parents and G. It was very relaxing. G and I watched The Town on demand Sunday night after the kids were in bed, and I really enjoyed that. It was a great movie.

We came home today, and I am still fighting through everything. Tomorrow is my last day of antibiotics, and I’m seriously thinking about going back to the dr. I cannot shake this cough, which is probably just my asthma, but since the last time I had a sinus infection it turned into bronchitis, I guess I should err on the side of caution. At least the other issues that had me in so much pain have just about resolved themselves, which is a relief.

So yeah, that’s why I haven’t been blogging. Over the next few days, as I catch up on other parts of my life, I’ll fill you in on what’s been going on there, too.  Good news to report, thankfully!

Hazel Kelly, 1926-2010

***I posted this as a note on Facebook last night, but I want to share these thoughts here as well.***

Aunt Hazel (on the left, in green) and my maternal grandmother--Christmas 1990

My Aunt Hazel died yesterday, about 24 hours after she suffered a massive stroke. She was 84 years old and was my dad’s oldest sister; she was the oldest sibling in the family.

I was close with my Aunt Hazel. She was widowed when I was still very young–perhaps even before I was school age. After my Uncle Howard died, my parents had Aunt Hazel over quite a bit for dinner, as well as for holidays and special occasions; by the time I was in high school, if not sooner, she was over at least once a week.

During my senior year of high school, Aunt Hazel and her friend Donna took me on a campus visit to the college from which I would eventually graduate.  I can’t remember why, but for some reason neither of my parents could take me. It was an overnight visit, so they probably couldn’t get off work or something like that. Anyway, Aunt Hazel volunteered her services–which really meant that she volunteered Donna’s, since Aunt Hazel didn’t drive and Donna drove her everywhere at the time–and she and Donna set off with me to northwest Ohio and the small town of Bluffton.  I had never been north of Dayton at the time, and I don’t think they had been to that part of the state, either, so it was quite the adventure. I remember Aunt Hazel was particularly excited that they were taking me on a college visit, since she did not go to college herself and was very proud of the fact that I was a good student and that I was college-bound.

Other than the car ride, I didn’t spend much time with Aunt Hazel and Donna on that trip; since it was an overnight visit, I stayed in the dorms, and I attended classes and was busy on campus the next day. I remember that on the way up, we kept laughing about the number of exits on I-75 that were labelled “County Road 25-A.” Aunt Hazel would say, “Just how long is that road?!” and then crack herself up. I also remember how the three of us went out to dinner at the old Denny’s in Bluffton; we were all appalled by how horrible Bluffton water tasted.

But what I remember most of all is how meaningful it was to me that Aunt Hazel made sure that I was able to go on this trip and how she reveled in sharing that adventure. It was another moment in my life when I realized that my educational accomplishments and goals were not mine alone; instead, as Deborah Brandt writes of one of her participants in Literacy in American Lives, “Like a delta, Michael’s environment for reading and writing was a repository of accumulating material and ideological complexity that carried the history of economic transformation within his region and his family” (101). The opportunities that I have had–and will have–were built on the backs of the women in my family who never had those chances themselves but who made sure I would develop the literate abilities needed to pursue them. Aunt Hazel was one of those women. She supported my education in whatever ways she could, taking pride in my intellect and never teasing me for my bookish ways. That meant a lot to me, especially when I was a teenager and felt so different from others around me.

I also spent a good deal of time with Aunt Hazel during my last year of high school, my college years, and the early years of my marriage because she was a caretaker of my maternal grandmother, who came to live with my parents at the end of my junior year of high school. As my grandma aged, she could not stay home alone while my mother was at work; Aunt Hazel was enlisted to sit with Grandma during some of those days. This is why some of my favorite memories of my aunt involve my grandmother. I would come home from school or work–or G and I would come over for dinner–to find Grandma and Aunt Hazel sitting in the TV room, cackling together over the exploits of some celebrity they’d read about in “the trashies,” Aunt Hazel’s term for the tabloid magazines she loved to read. My Uncle Larry and Aunt Marie had given her a subscription to the National Enquirer (or one of those magazines), and after she finished reading an issue, she’d bring it to my grandma to read. When Grandma could no longer read the small print of the magazine, Aunt Hazel would read to her, and they’d have a ball.  Listening to the two of them was a hoot.

As my aunt grew older, my parents took her shopping for groceries and other things, and she would come over for dinner more frequently. She became part of all of our family celebrations, and I always looked forward to seeing her when I came back from Columbus or Fort Wayne. Aunt Hazel and M were very fond of each other as well, and that relationship brought me a lot of joy.  I didn’t see her as much during the last two or so years of her life; it became harder for her to go out, and she finally had to move into a nursing home this past summer.

When I was home over Labor Day weekend, my mom, M, and I went to visit Aunt Hazel. I am so thankful I had that opportunity to talk with her for what turned out to be the last time. I’m also thankful that M was able to see her as well. Aunt Hazel was pretty much the closest thing M had to a great-grandma, and M loved her. We had a good visit that day; we talked about M’s school and ballet, my job, P, and other things. I had planned to visit her again over Christmas. I’m sorry that was not to be.

Goodbye, Aunt Hazel. I am better because you were in my life; I hope I enriched your life during the thirty-seven years I was part of it. I will miss you.

Relief

Today I learned that my tenure decision has been delayed a year; I will now be submitting my case Fall 2012.  This is a huge relief.

I submitted a stop-the-clock request last month.  As you all know, I am going through some challenges in my personal life, and those challenges have affected my mental health. I’ll be very direct here: I’m depressed. It’s not as bad as it could be (as it has been in the past).  Thankfully, I have not felt suicidal or anything like that. But I’m struggling. It takes pretty much everything I have to get through my classes each day.

My faculty mentor saw evidence of that struggle and urged me quite forcefully to stop the clock. She accurately noted that I am in no shape to prepare my tenure case, and those preparations will start very soon; packets go out to external reviewers by February or March.  After consulting with a senior colleague in another department, I went to my chair and composed the request. Over the past several weeks, I’ve been waiting as the request worked its way through my dean’s office and to the vice-chancellor, who had the final word.

I’m very grateful to have more time.  Hopefully I’ll be in a much better place a year from now. I suspect that I will be dealing with many of these challenges for some time to come, but this extra time will allow me to recover my equilibrium and reinforce my coping mechanisms. Even if the issues haven’t changed at all–or worsened–by this time next year, my mental health should be better, thanks to the work I’m doing now.

I hope.

Confronting Mortality

Yesterday, I found out that my dad’s youngest brother–who is about twenty years younger than my dad–had a light stroke Thursday night.

Fortunately, it sounds like my uncle will be okay.  One of my cousins immediately rushed him to the hospital, and my aunt brought him home yesterday.  Another cousin posted on FB that his face and left side were still a little numb, but otherwise, he was doing fine.

My dad has four surviving siblings; one of his younger sisters died of diphtheria when she was two, and one of his younger brothers died of an aneurysm when he (the brother) was nineteen.  My dad is the second oldest in the family, and the oldest son; he will be 82 in September.

Neither of his two sisters are doing well, either.  My Aunt H, who turned 83 a few months back, is now in a nursing home (this just happened a few weeks ago).  She will never leave. As my mother would say, her mind is not right, and she has also has some physical problems.  Bottom line:  she can’t take care of herself anymore.

My Aunt J is 78, I believe, and she has been the caretaker of her husband, who has Alzheimer’s, for several years.  He is now in a nursing home as well–I think he went in about a year ago, maybe less.  While Aunt J no longer has some of the physical challenges of caring for him, her past care has taken a toll on her body, and the emotional care she continues to give has taken its toll on her spirit. I fear my uncle will outlive her, as she has lost so much weight and simply does not look well.

My aunts’ and uncle’s health problems, not to mention the loss of my FIL three years ago, has made me especially thankful not only that I still have my dad, but also that he is still in such great health. His only major health issue was hip replacement surgery six years ago, and he came through that like it was nothing; a month after the surgery, he went on vacation to Myrtle Beach.  He didn’t drive the trip as usual, but that was the only activity he curtailed.

He does have some chronic health conditions, but none of those really affect the quality of his life.  He’s been on high blood pressure medicine for as long as I can remember.  He was diagnosed with diverticulitis when I was around M’s age, but he has always been very vigilant about his diet and taking his fiber supplement.  About ten or eleven years ago, he was diagnosed with type-two diabetes, but again, he is vigilant about his diet and until about a year ago, he didn’t have to take insulin or monitor his blood sugar.  He does have to take a pill now and check his blood sugar, but it hasn’t been that big of a deal.

So, I really haven’t had to worry about my dad or his health. While he did have that bad fall this winter, he escaped from that with only some bumps and bruises.  There have been no heart attacks, no strokes, and no cancer.  The worst thing that happened was the car wreck he had on the job eight days before he was supposed to retire from the police force. That could have been bad (fatal), but he was wearing his seat belt, and that saved his life. It did aggravate arthritis in his back, but still, he was very fortunate.

He looks and acts like a much younger man; people who don’t know my dad usually think he’s ten years younger than he really is.  He finally retired–for real–a month ago.  His boss sold the auto parts store where he’s worked since I was just a baby, so now, at nearly 82, he is officially retired.

Sometimes I forget just how old my dad is and think of him as invincible, in a way. Although my dad is rather short (5’9″) and has never been muscular, he has always seemed strong and physically imposing to me.  I think it’s, for lack of a better term, the cop thing: my childhood memories of Daddy are of him coming home from work in his uniform, unstrapping his gun belt and removing his weapon.  He walked and carried himself with a powerful, though understated, masculinity, and he could silence anyone with one of his infamous glares.  He wasn’t (and isn’t) a “macho” type, though; my dad is a quiet man, and that translates into his demeanor and body.  The best way I know how to explain it is that he has quiet confidence and authority.  I think that is why he still seems invincible to me, even though intellectually I know he is not.

Taken on my dad’s birthday, probably around 1979 or 1980

I feel extremely lucky to have had my dad for so long and in such good health.  My aunts’ and uncles’ recent problems has reminded me that one day–perhaps sooner than I think–I will be confronted with my dad’s mortality in a very real way.

My dad and me, January 2002

My dad and P, August 2009