WRideout
12-25-2016, 01:19 PM
FLOWERS ON THE ALTAR
Every year, before Christmas, flowers appeared around the altar at church, as if they grew there naturally. They were generally blood red and green poinsettias, but sometimes chrysanthemums also blossomed. The church bulletin always had an insert with the names of the honored dead whom the flowers represented, and I found myself wondering why my family name is not on that list, because, you see, my own father is also dead.
I suppose it is not all that strange that I never bought flowers in memory of my father; I hardly knew him. He was deeply flawed in some ways, yet a kind and gentle soul, in spite of that. He had suffered greatly in his life and blunted the pain with strong drink.
I was angry with him from the time I was an adolescent. It wasn’t any particular thing he did; rather it was the emotional absence that hurt me so deeply. It was not until I was grown, and a father myself that I began to understand the gifts he had given me over the years.
He had trouble expressing his affection for my brother and me, so he did other things to show that he cared. Once when I was small we went on vacation to the Sierra Nevada Mountains of the West. Dad loved to fish for trout, and tried to show us boys how to fish, without much success. As the station wagon headed for home, I mumbled to my mother my disappointment at having to return to school without being able to brag about catching any fish at all. Now, dad had spotted a trout farm along the road; the kind of place where they raise fish in ponds for tourists and you can catch them with a bare hook. He pulled in and stopped so that I could enjoy the finest moment of our vacation, catching one trout after another and reeling them in. It was years before Mom told me that dad had stopped there just for me.
Dad taught me a lot of things that I didn’t appreciate at the time. When I was eighteen years old, and working at a dead-end job that I couldn’t stand, he encouraged me to look beyond the present moment and seek opportunities elsewhere. In his way, Dad taught me that life was about choices.
Simple things that he did are memorable to me now. I no longer react with fear to the dictum that we all become our own parents. From my father I inherited a poet’s spirit, and the love of a good story, well told. I learned that life was never so bad that giving up was an acceptable alternative. And I learned that at the end of life, I might face death with dignity, as he did. I pondered all these things and realized that the father I did not know actually loved me more that I could tell. And as my anger began to dissipate, I realized that the qualities I most appreciate in myself came from him.
And so it came to pass that on a day in December, just before Christmas when the flowers bloomed around the altar in church, a poinsettia plant was placed there to commemorate the honored dead of my own family. And one line in the church bulletin insert simply read “In memory of Clyde Rideout”.
Wayne
Every year, before Christmas, flowers appeared around the altar at church, as if they grew there naturally. They were generally blood red and green poinsettias, but sometimes chrysanthemums also blossomed. The church bulletin always had an insert with the names of the honored dead whom the flowers represented, and I found myself wondering why my family name is not on that list, because, you see, my own father is also dead.
I suppose it is not all that strange that I never bought flowers in memory of my father; I hardly knew him. He was deeply flawed in some ways, yet a kind and gentle soul, in spite of that. He had suffered greatly in his life and blunted the pain with strong drink.
I was angry with him from the time I was an adolescent. It wasn’t any particular thing he did; rather it was the emotional absence that hurt me so deeply. It was not until I was grown, and a father myself that I began to understand the gifts he had given me over the years.
He had trouble expressing his affection for my brother and me, so he did other things to show that he cared. Once when I was small we went on vacation to the Sierra Nevada Mountains of the West. Dad loved to fish for trout, and tried to show us boys how to fish, without much success. As the station wagon headed for home, I mumbled to my mother my disappointment at having to return to school without being able to brag about catching any fish at all. Now, dad had spotted a trout farm along the road; the kind of place where they raise fish in ponds for tourists and you can catch them with a bare hook. He pulled in and stopped so that I could enjoy the finest moment of our vacation, catching one trout after another and reeling them in. It was years before Mom told me that dad had stopped there just for me.
Dad taught me a lot of things that I didn’t appreciate at the time. When I was eighteen years old, and working at a dead-end job that I couldn’t stand, he encouraged me to look beyond the present moment and seek opportunities elsewhere. In his way, Dad taught me that life was about choices.
Simple things that he did are memorable to me now. I no longer react with fear to the dictum that we all become our own parents. From my father I inherited a poet’s spirit, and the love of a good story, well told. I learned that life was never so bad that giving up was an acceptable alternative. And I learned that at the end of life, I might face death with dignity, as he did. I pondered all these things and realized that the father I did not know actually loved me more that I could tell. And as my anger began to dissipate, I realized that the qualities I most appreciate in myself came from him.
And so it came to pass that on a day in December, just before Christmas when the flowers bloomed around the altar in church, a poinsettia plant was placed there to commemorate the honored dead of my own family. And one line in the church bulletin insert simply read “In memory of Clyde Rideout”.
Wayne