For his memory bank :: Letters to my father {part 1}

I have been thinking about how i wanted to do this for some time now.  How i want to do something meaningful and positive for my parents.  My father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2010, the year Jason proposed to me.  Over the past four years he has embraced it and has lived every day with purpose.  My mother has been a huge support for him, learning to live with a disease that can take over your body.  I have been amazed, watching them make slight changes to their life and activities to better their life with Parkinson's.  My parents have always been the most supportive, loving, encouraging and kind parents to my brothers and I.  When i think back on my childhood, i find it nothing but idyllic.   Although money was tight, my parents filled our home with so much love, that my brothers and I never knew.  My mom stayed home with us when we were little, picking up little side jobs here and there.  My dad worked his tail off, sometimes taking on side gigs to help fund a vacation or braces.  But both of my parents worked toward a common goal; to raise loving, inquisitive, confident, kind and happy children.

As my dad and mom live each day, looking at the positives of their life, his memories from our early days may start to fade.  I think of my childhood as being one of the happiest times in my parent's life.  And so, i plan to begin a series of posts to my father, for his memory bank.  Stories from our youth, the happy and real moments.  The ones that stuck with me.  Remembering my childhood on Jerusalem Road.

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Part 1 ~ Strive for B's

In the middle of January, the moonlit air was always crisp and refreshing.  In the midst of a Vermont winter, cabin fever was beginning to set in.  It was my first year back in public school, after being home-schooled for the past two years.  I was feeling anxious and stir crazy.  I was nervous about mid-year exams and how i could possibly cram another history date and fact into my brain.  I was longing for the days when i learned alongside my mother, at just the right pace.  I felt defeated and nervous.

We were just finishing up dinner, as i began to have a breakdown at the table.  My dad was a social worker (by profession) and always knew what to say.  I hated that.  He would look at me and say "what's bothering you?"  He always knew when i was stressed.  Or maybe he knew because i was testing my mother with my teenager sass.  Either way, he always said something and i would inevitably start crying and tell him to stop counseling me and run to my room.

After my mom came in and we talked, my dad would come down the hall and tell me to get my jacket on.  We were going for a walk.  I would tell him that i didn't want to, i was tired, it was too cold.  He would say, "well, we're going.  You'll feel better once we get out there."  And so, i would whine to myself as i bundled up in layers of gear while our black labs, Cody and Jewel danced excitedly at our feet.  My mom was usually cleaning up dinner at this time and she'd say "have a good walk" as we left the warmth of our home.

Sometimes we didn't talk for the first bit.  Sometimes we'd just walk and hear only the sounds of the winter wind whipping by our face and our dog's collars jingling with every step.  We usually wore headlamps.  But most nights, if the sky was clear, we could turn them off and walk to the light of the winter moon.

I remember the stars being a brilliant blanket over our little world on the mountain.  I remember never being afraid to walk our dirt road in the dark.  My parents raised us to be confident and safe in the woods and landscape surrounding our home.  At some point i would finally stop and take a deep breath.  I would look up at the moon and stars and feel alive.

He would start talking gently, but with purpose.  I would take some time, but finally open up about what i was really nervous about.  From there, we wouldn't stop talking.  We usually walked to Carroll's or the bottom of Atkins hill if the conversation allowed.  Rarely did we see a car.  It was just us on our snow covered road, in our winter home.

He'd finally get me to admit that i was worried i wouldn't get a "A" on the test.  I was worried i didn't know enough about the topic to write a good paper.  He would laugh and pick up his tone, instantly making my problem seem like a minor scrape in the scheme of life.  And once again, he would tell me that he never wants me to strive for A's.  My mom and him only want us to be well rounded people, and if i would strive for B's, i would excel in every level of his book.  I would usually be mad about this.  I wanted to be perfect.  He would go on to talk about all of my accomplishments and whats makes me happy.

As we neared closer to home, i would usually be smiling again and relaxed.  He would end the talk with: "Remember kid, strive for B's.  I'll be mad if i see all A's on that report card."  Taking one last breath of clean winter air, I'd open the back door with a jingle, as my mom would greet us with "how was the walk?" as she organized the papers on the kitchen table.  I'd smile and say "It's beautiful out, what a perfect winter night."  She'd look at my dad with the loving eyes i always saw in our home.

The three of us would settle into the living room to relax for the night.  I'd work on my homework, while some sort of sport was dancing on the television screen.  Mom would be cutting out the next craft for story time at the Library.  Activities aside, we all felt more at peace.  Although i didn't verbalize it, i would always be quietly thankful for parents who knew exactly what i needed.

Thankful for the crisp winter air and our long dirt road talks.  Ready to take on tomorrow.