All posts in family

thanks for nothing, Dad.

I say ‘nothing’ because when someone does something they usually mention it. or make a big deal out of it. or draw attention to it… but my Dad did it all quietly. humbly. we barely noticed it. all while being an incredibly sweet & romantic husband.

so, thanks, Dad, for doing the greatest thing you could…

simply setting an example.

[your firstborn]

it was a fine boat jumble, the boat jumble of two-thousand and ten. if you were to ever stop by the boat, no doubt I’d walk you through the purchases, the bargains, the oars that, in the final hour, were found – exactly what I was looking for and at a third of the price. even as I would go through the bag of goodies a week later – a bag bought at the boat jumble of two-thousand and ten to hold all of the bargains – I would find things that even I didn’t remember buying. it was a whirlwind of big beards and salty tales – a colorful and windy introduction to the colorful world of this windy sport.

clutches and crab pots.

ropes and rowlocks.

and a fishing reel.

now, I’ll be completely honest with you, I’m not the best of fishermen – the first time I tried, more than twenty years ago, I pulled back a gangly arm to cast only to catch my friend Michael in the eye – hook a fraction away from his pupil. the next was more than a decade later, this ending involving words like ‘catfish’ and ‘stinging’…

long story short – I wasn’t exactly looking for anything fishing-y at the fine boat jumble of two-thousand and ten.

Nick and I walked up to the table set up next to the sad white van in the scabbier section of the festival. there wasn’t that much for sale, but that didn’t matter to us. see, Nick had a knack for being able to spot from a distance what was good, and what would be cheap. that’s what called him over. my draw was different.

it was a man.

in a field deep in the New Forest of South England, hundreds of people paid a fee to set up and sell their treasures. I would, in that 4 hours we spent there, come into contact with most of them.

but this man stood out.

then again, he stood out to everyone.

he shook. his whole body shook. hands. head. shoulders. he shook violently. the kind of shaking that made everyone realize that someone there must know him, less an ambulance would have been called. no – that’s not true, perhaps some weren’t far from making that dial, up until they spoke to him or, as I would experience, heard him speak first.

in his head, and his throat, nothing was wrong. nothing was sick. nothing was evil. he was fine. he just shook. he had severe Parkinson’s. he also seemed to be the only one not to notice. he commented in detail to the reels Nick would inspect, mentioning occasionally that ‘he’d make a fine deal’ to presumably whichever shiny prize one would eye.

funny that I remember him saying that – ‘fine’ – and that it was the adjective I would lead with this story.

Nick, being a few years older, a few boat jumbles more experienced, and a few old sailors more acquainted, seemed not to give his attention-grabbing condition any attention whatsoever, asking the same questions that he had so many tables before. but I just stood there – not staring, but not not staring. I couldn’t help it and that embarrassed me. thankfully Nick had found something he thought I could use and, as we had so many times that day, averted my not-stares by passing whatever was in his hand over to me with a ‘you could use this’ look. the man who shook took notice and told me he ‘reckoned I could use that’ and added that he’d even throw in something ‘extra’ to complete the exchange.

yes. he could have told me it was twice the price of it’s worth and I would have said yes. I didn’t need something extra, I just wanted him to stop shaking.

he threw in some dirty little lure wallet to put my hooks and things in – not knowing about Michael’s eye or the fact that I always felt bad hooking worms. I paid him what would turn out to be a ridiculously cheap price for a very nice reel and walked away – he said ‘thanks’ and apologized for his ‘episode’, citing that he simply ‘had forgotten his pills that day’.

as we moved to the next table, Nick wanted to talk about what a great find I had just made and I did everything I could to keep from walking out into the field to my right and completely losing it. see, what Nick didn’t know, what the man who shook didn’t know was that my Dad also has Parkinson’s. he takes his pills and seems to have it as under control as one could, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that, at some point, so did the man who shook. this man, he had a van. he knew enough about fishing to have been a fisherman at some point. he could handle money and had the presence of mind to offer up a meek apology for his ‘episode’.

no doubt he too had a kid somewhere who once assumed that those tiny tablets were constantly within a shaking arm’s reach.

in the Queen family, we’ve always tackled things with a very, very dry Irish sense of humor. is it serious? yes. but is it also something we’ll laugh about someday? yes – so let’s go ahead and laugh now. if you have a weakness, we’ll bring it up and laugh, it’s just how things are dealt with – Dad’s condition not withstanding. I’ve seen him a number of times since it’s taken over the better part of his hand and, while painful, it’s never driven me to a point of having a fit of my own.

but for reasons no doubt obvious to you, the man who shook, a man I knew for no more than 5 minutes broke my heart. he could very well be my Father someday – be it soon, or years down the road. it won’t kill him, as, if you know my Dad, you’d understand. 24 years ago he could’ve beaten your dad up and I still bet you an entire pack of Skybox basketball cards he still can. it’s not your dad or Parkinson’s that he couldn’t beat – it’s the years. at some point, that’s it – He and Mom are gone. with each day that horrible day gets one day closer. you’ve either dealt with it, or will too, so it would be unfair of me now to shake a verbal fist at the powers.

and so, I went home and wrote him a letter, just letting him know how much I love him.

I scanned a few photos of us back-in-the-day and wrote a few poignant lines on the back.

making a a point to hold on a few seconds longer when I hugged him next.

…

I did none of these things.

not one.

if it takes a man who shakes to remind me to love my Dad, then I don’t exactly deserve to publicly announce actions like that fueled entirely on guilt and hindsight.

but I’ll tell you the one thing I did do.

the only thing I could think of to begin making up for all of those letters never written, photos never scanned and hugs left too short…

I made a point to fish.