Ninety-seven and independent 'til the end
Lori Borgman | Monday, June 22, 2009
I was certain my father-in-law would make it onto
the Today Show with Willard Scott and the Smucker's jam jar. I was
wrong.
He has died at the age of 97. Or "97 and three-quarters"
as he was quick to point out.
He still lived alone in the old house where he
had grown up on 20 acres that has been in the family for a century.
He enjoyed a Bloody Mary, ate fast food and drove a convertible
he bought at age 86.
He had a razor-sharp mind and took a wealth of
facts, figures and temperature highs and lows with him to the grave.
He was a favorite of the local historical societies.
His one acquiescence to old age came last fall
when he consented to allowing a housekeeping service to come every
other week. The service came once and he told them not to come back.
Living 97 and three-quarters years is a two-edged
sword. He enjoyed a long life, but outlived his wife of 48 years,
all 11 of his brothers and sisters, and nearly all of his cousins,
high school classmates and members of his retirees' group. We all
assumed he'd probably outlive us as well. He'd be like Methuselah
in the Bible, celebrating his 100th and pushing on to 500.
He became a father later in life and cherished
his children. He lived for phone calls and visits from his son and
daughter.
Most everyone calls my husband Charlie, but my
father-in-law has always called him Chuck. Whenever we crossed the
state line into Ohio, we joked that the rest of us immediately lost
our identities. We became Chuck's family. I was Chuck's wife and
the three children were Chuck's kids. My father-in-law was old school;
we were Chuck's appendages and we thoroughly enjoyed it.
He was a storyteller who perfected the art of
the dramatic pause and had a way with words. He called the air "close"
on humid days and often remarked that something was "boo-ti-ful,
just boo-ti-ful."
A few months ago, he roughed out a lengthy list
of information he wanted in his obituary on a piece of cardstock
and tucked it into his journal. At the top he wrote, "I hate stingy
obits!" and underlined it with a wavy blue line. Chuck and Chuck's
sister had been instructed to make sure the obit was of good length
and pay no regard to the cost.
The old suitcase he used to carry on visits to
our house now sits in our front hall. The cell phone we gave him
for his 95th birthday rests on the kitchen counter.
He was the oldest of our four parents and yet
he lived the longest. They are all gone now. A heavy door on well-oiled
hinges has swung shut with a resounding thud. Another generation
has passed.
We now become the ones who will answer the questions
about home mortgages, stuffing turkeys, colicky babies and buying
tires. We are the ones who will keep the family stories alive and
perfect the dramatic pause.
The umpire has swept home plate, lowered his mask
and yelled, "Play ball."
If we handle ourselves well, perhaps we can make
something boo-ti-ful.
