We Moved But Daddy Stayed Behind
In the winter of 1990, while John and I were living in London, we began building a house in Indiana for my parents and sister. My sister was the realtor for the development, and with a favorable exchange rate, we thought it to be a win, win situation.
Snow and dirt were all we could see on the lot and there were no roads or houses nearby as it had been pastureland. We were near the end of what would soon be a cul-de-sac. We thought, “Perfect!” My father was bursting with pride as he had never imagined owning a house of nearly 4,000 sq ft. The house was a beautiful light-colored brick with a wrap-around porch. Those using the front porch swings would be kept cool by overhead fans. Two stories were visible from the front and three from the back. My mother, the practical one, said, “I’m happy in this small apartment but go ahead.” And “Go ahead…” we did.
My father’s routine had become a daily, early morning trip to the nearby McDonalds where he and his longtime friends would meet for coffee. My Dad didn’t drink coffee, but the friendships were longstanding; over 50 years since high school. He would boast to his friends the details of this wondrous home. He thought to himself, “If a picture’s worth a thousand words, wouldn’t it be worth the purchase of a Polaroid camera?”
He began the daily ritual of driving to the house to document the contractor’s every movement with photos of the concrete being poured and the framing going up and every day a new adventure was shared at McDonalds. I feel sure the other men became bored but probably thought, “Better than going home to watch a game show.”
My father became easily angered. I think his ego was slightly hurt that his daughter and son-in-law were building his dream home. He began these flare-ups with, “I’m not moving there because there aren’t enough closets in the bedroom!” There were five bedrooms for him to use with as many closets. The next flare-up was my favorite, “The stair treads are not wide enough for my entire foot.” Each emotional outburst was followed by our “talking him down.”
John and I arranged for them to move into the house just before the beauty and colors of the Indiana autumn. This house was outside the city with many trees and the rolling hills of Southern Indiana. The magnificent splendor of the golds, oranges, and reds were breathtaking. We planted large sweet-smelling honey locust trees, Japanese Red Maples, and a substantial Live Oak Tree just outside the kitchen window and flower beds encircled the entire house. My father had always been an avid gardener with two green thumbs. We made sure there was plenty of planting area to keep him busy and happy.
The lawn was to be kept by a wonderful gardener, but the beds were absolutely off-limits. With a half an acre lawn, it didn’t take long for my father to have his eye on the riding lawn mower of his dreams. Soon after, I looked out the back windows to see my father running after an out of control lawnmower like something from an I Love Lucy episode. His arms flailing, shouting at this inanimate object to “STOP!” His straw hat had fallen off rows before.
The inside of the house would be delivered on the move-in day. I wanted my Mom, Dad, and sister to have all new furnishings. I had purchased furniture with the help of a wonderful interior designer on my various trips back and forth from London.
Sadly, my sister developed breast cancer at the start of this home adventure. Her chemotherapy was every three weeks, and I would fly back to be with her during the therapy. Her final treatment coincided with the time we were ready to move in. The first floor walked out into a beautiful stepped garden. We brought enormous stones pulled from a fountain in Louisville. The water’s wearing had given up stunning, large steps waiting to be mounted into the hill.
My sister’s area was on the first floor, had a small kitchen, living room with fireplace, dining area, bedroom, and an office allowing her to work from home during her recuperation. Her kitchen allowed room for a stove, microwave, and a refrigerator perfectly sized for multiple bottles of wine.
The top two floors had a huge kitchen with an eating area overlooking a deep red Japanese Maple and gardens in the back just waiting for my father to begin his planting. The best though was the Lazy-Boy style recliner perfectly placed in front of a large television and a large window onto his back garden. The chair, HIS chair, had both heat and massage as well as reclining. There was nothing too good for my Dad.
My father, mother, and sister lived in the home for many years. In the eighth year, Dad began having more and more illnesses from bladder cancer to “Mini-strokes,” which I could sense just from being on the telephone as his speech declined. I still visited them every couple of months, and when I didn’t visit, I sent tickets for them to come to London.
When the house was completed, we purchased a building and began a manufacturing company just outside of Louisville introducing British style Christmas Crackers to America. Meanwhile, my husband was asked to join another company in Lloyds, and it was an offer too good to resist. That meant us both commuting from London to Louisville as often as possible. The difficult part was not being home in London with my husband, but there was joy in spending time with my parents in my home in Indiana.
It was the Thanksgiving after selling America Goes Crackers, Inc. The movers had come, and all 10,000 sq ft of the building laid bare. Everything was totally empty as well as my father’s sole reason to live. He had come to the factory every day doing something…anything. One day I went into the storage area which was full of paper crackers and found him, hose in hand, wetting down the entire warehouse. Fortunately, everything was off the floor on shelves, saved by what could have been thousands of dollars in damages.
When these incidents were discovered, he would fight embarrassment with anger. In fact, he fought everything with anger. This particular day he decided he was going to move out of the house and find a room to rent. He walked to the nearby Krogers with a 3×5 card describing the room to add to the cork bulletin board at the front door. Krogers had become his’ “Go-To” place. We couldn’t understand why he would go to Krogers sometimes twice a day. It was when my niece was living with us said, “He goes so often so he can use the express lane.” She was probably right in that he was a Type AA personality.
Krogers became a meaningful place for all of my family. It was where neighbors met, and past friends shared family details and photos of their newest family members.
That Thanksgiving I lost my best friend in London to a scuba diving accident and I was devastated. He was in the Red Sea on a dive, had a heart attack and died leaving a 6-year-old and a six-month-old.
I was ready to move back to London, and it was tearing my father apart. Again, he fought his fears with anger. He kept trying to argue as an excuse not to take me to the airport. Later that day, he said, “I may die and you will never see me again!” This was had become the threat every time I left him. Frustrated, I said, “Well if you are going to do it, I leave at noon on Saturday!” That Saturday morning, at 5:30 my mother came to my room and said, “I think your father has had a stroke. I need your help.” I found him in his rocking chair with his underwear draped over his lap. He was unable to speak coherently. There were no drugs for strokes and he could not stand the thought of dying, incapacitated in a nursing home. I had promised that would not happen to him. I could wait no longer, and I called his doctor who’s response was to call an ambulance, and he would meet us at the hospital.
The ambulance arrived attended by my Dad’s friend, the local weatherman, and a volunteer fireman. My father eked out a smile toward John. They wheeled him toward the ambulance while we tried to gain our composure. We all knew this would be his last time leaving his much loved home. As they put him into the ambulance my Mother, Sister and I were with him. He looked over to me barely able to speak and said, “I love you” followed by a long sob.
My father died in the hospital five days later after lying in a coma while we sat with him, gently caressing his face and holding his hands.
This is not the end of my father’s story.
I mentioned how much Daddy loved that home, and he was not going quietly. For years, I would lie in my bed in the room above the kitchen hearing sounds my father used to make such as dragging chairs across the floor, slamming cabinet and pantry doors. He was even able to make the sound of the raising of the kitchen window that he used to shout from for the kids next door. Finally, I asked my mother about the noises and being the practical one she responded with, “Of course!” She said that she had heard him since he died. To her, the noises were reassuring. He was still with her. These were not the noises of a house settling they were very distinctive “George” noises.
My husband had knee replacement surgery and was left alone while my mother and I ran errands. While sitting in my father’s much-beloved chair he said, “George, if you are here, bring my mother and father as they too are welcome here.” That night while we slept upstairs, John felt a nudging in his side. He thought it was me. Again, another nudge. He looked at the end of the bed where he saw what appeared to be my father and with him, John’s Mother, Father, and recently deceased brother-in-law. He shouted to me to tell me to look. I said, “Of course they are here. They are always with us.” By the time I was wide awake, the apparitions were gone.
We knew my father was still in the house, but my mother had moved to Florida living with us. The time came where we had to sell my father’s home. For three years and many showings, no one bought this beautiful home. Lowering the price by over $100,000…Nothing! My sister even buried the proverbial St Joseph’s statue near the front door, faced up. Still nothing. Finally, I walked through the house alone, and I said aloud, “Daddy, we can no longer afford to keep this lovely home. Please stop telling people not to buy the house.” Within a month the home was sold.
John and I went to the house for a final check. We drove into the driveway opening the garage door. We walked toward the house, and the door was unlocked. I turned the doorknob and it felt as if someone from the inside was pulling the door. I thought that someone was on the inside. No one was there as we entered the house. We both felt as if this was my father’s final message before we closed the door for one last time. As we walked through the house checking to make certain nothing was left behind, We walked out of the garage door ….and my father stayed behind.
PS. My sisters, Mom, and I met at the cemetery to bury my father’s ashes in a beautiful, square marble container. He planned to add my mother’s ashes once she Mom died so they could be together again. My niece wanted some of my father’s ashes to spread over her garden. I wanted to spread some over his special garden at the house. I drove away, leaving my Mom with my sisters. On my way home, I realized I had one stop to make. I looked over at the seat to see my father’s ashes. I looked outside the car, realizing I had stopped at Krogers only needing a few things so I could use the express lane.
