REMEMBERING

MAY 20, 2023 – Today a sister called me to catch up. At some juncture she said, “I’m sure you remembered, but today is Dad’s birthday.”

“Yeah,” I said, adding that he would’ve been 101.

“Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t live that long,” she said, light-heartedly. I agreed. Rarely are sight, taste, hearing, digestion, urination, ambulation, and mental acuity—not to mention a sense of humor—all tolerably operable at a really old age, and thus, a really old age is frequently a less than desirable achievement.

Dad lived just shy of his 88^th birthday. Except for his last eight months, he lived a reasonably healthy life in his 24 years of retirement. When Dad was on “final approach,” he said to the hospitalist, “George Washington only made it to 67 and Lincoln, only 56, so all in all, 88 isn’t so bad.” For even greater contrast, Dad could’ve added two of his favorite composers—Felix Mendelssohn, who died at 38, and Franz Schubert, who expired at 32—but maybe Dad assumed that the doctor was more likely to relate to our two most famous presidents than to a couple of Romantic composers. Even as he stared down the final runway, Dad viewed his life as a “glass . . . full.”

Enough of old age. As my sister pointed out, today marks the anniversary of Dad’s entrance into this world, not his exit. Coincidentally, I drove alone up to the Red Cabin today to prepare the dock for full assembly by our oldest son, Cory, when his family joins Beth and me next weekend. I say, “coincidentally,” because the adjoining domain, which many decades ago Dad named Björnholm, is what largely defined him, especially in his retirement years. He loved it up here—his many projects, inside and outside the cabin, which he ran as if he were the skipper of a very tight ship. And when Dad wasn’t engaged in some repair, maintenance or improvement effort, he’d immerse himself in books, writing and music. His Shangri-La was his easel.

But what he held sacred above all else were the trees. I thought about this as I stood at the base of one of his favorites—a towering white pine near a corner of the cabin. How many times Dad would stand where I stood, raise his arm, press his hand against the trunk, and like a sea captain leaning against the main mast of a great sailing vessel, gaze skyward in admiration of the billowing sails.

As I worked on my own project of the day—a variation of Dad’s own dock design—I thought more about Dad. I could almost feel him standing nearby, watching me and commenting on my work. I think he would’ve approved of my design. Actually, I know he would have: I was channeling him and his patiently pragmatic approach to problem solving; devising solutions that aren’t to be found in a book or YouTube video but that are discovered the old-fashioned way—by studying the problem and often, by way of a meticulous, scale drawing.

After accomplishing more than I’d anticipated, I put my tools aside and hiked the woodland path down to the old cabin. I imagined meeting Dad along the way and striking up a conversation. He was curious how everyone in the family was doing. I hoped he’d find joy and relief in my report.

He then asked me, in my thoughts, about the state of the world, and I had much to explain. How shocked he was, I couldn’t say. A lifelong Republican, he’d have no time for Biden, but I couldn’t countenance Dad’s embracing the Duly Defeated or the ex-president’s supporters or enablers. I think—I want to think—that he reserved his harshest judgment for Republicans who’d allowed the Duly Defeated into the tent in the first place.

Dad then asked me what books I’d been reading, and I led with Max Hastings’ Inferno, about which I’ve posted much on this blog site.

I had many questions for Dad about one thing and another. In life he was exceptionally knowledgeable about the subjects that interested him, and he was deeply interested in many things about the world.

Inevitably, we turned to our immediate surroundings—the woods in spring, the views of the shining lake, the gorgeous weather—finally—in redemption of a rugged winter. We sat on the bench atop Blueberry Hill and marveled at nature’s resilience. I told Dad how much I miss him; how much all of us do; how much his unqualified love for us lives on in our hearts and minds.

And then I wished him a Happy Birthday.

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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson