This father had made a few mistakes in his life but he loved and nurtured his daughter. One night, he put the pretty little girl to bed and that was the last time he ever saw her. He and his daughter lived in a run-down trailer on the west coast of Florida where he eked a living as best he could. There was no mother in the picture.

Imagine his horror, when he found his child missing the next morning. He called the police immediately and of course, they accused him of being responsible for whatever had happened to her. He was absolutely devastated and insisted that the authorities expand their net to search the immediate area to try and find his daughter. This tragedy had immense media coverage with the father pleading for the return of his daughter. Finally, they investigated a neighbor who had a record of being a sex offender. It turned out that he had dragged the child to his own trailer where he abused her and then buried her in his yard.

The overcome father spent time grieving for his tremendous loss and then began to campaign for children’s rights against sex offenders. He was on all the national shows pleading for help in his campaign to rid the country of these heinous individuals.

I watched the tragedy unfold and felt such grief for this unfortunate father who was only guilty of loving his child. Because of this, I began painting a portrait of the man and his child and sent the painting to him. He was so happy to receive this remembrance of his little girl. I painted this not only for him but for me because I had incorporated his loss so deeply into my heart. His story faded into the background but I have never forgotten the crushing events. I hope that he cherishes the portrait of his little angel.

Legacy

 I looked down on my father. He was struggling to position himself comfortably in his bed, but he could not seem to get it just right. Deep down I know, I can’t help thinking: A lot of things are that way now. Dementia had taken its hold, robbing him of the man he was, stealing his identity, stripping away his memories like a putty knife scrapes away old paint. Today’s his birthday, March 1, 2015, but recognition of what that means is lost somewhere in the translation. When it comes to my dad — at this time in his life, a lot of things are missing. But I know the real truth, as I pondered the reality: — The time when I lacked understanding regarding my father.

He rolled onto his back exhausted. “Ohhhh, I hurt,” he moaned softly.

“I’m sorry dad,” I replied while adjusting his pillow a little lower to help support his neck. “Does that feel any better?”

He shivered, folding his arms. “I’m so cold.”

The room is warm, but I knew the truth, “The blood thinners have that effect, dad.” I pulled the covers up and tucked them around his frail body. “Is that better?”

He nodded, looking helpless at me, — the once powerful Marine, the soldier that served his country twice. His second call came as a sergeant during the Korean conflict. Looking through his service papers the other day: discharged honorably, but his papers were held up leaving him there longer than he should have been. Frostbite was the constant reminder. 

Cold seemed to follow the man, one who had difficulty in expressing affection while I was growing up. The man who was stiff the first time I remember hugging him. I was in my twenties, — raising my own family. I had learned how to hug from my sons. My father had followed the pattern learned from his father; but he was humble enough to realize it was okay to show this kind of affection to his son, although, it came late in life. 

Dad was a proud man, reduced to needing help just to get to the bathroom. My wife and I live with my parents now, taking care of them.

He sighed, “Thank you, son. You’re a good boy.”

My eyes watered as I ponder: It wasn’t always that way. There was a time when I was the one that lacked comprehension: When I was an angry young man that couldn’t grasp who my father was.

I moved his transport chair back from the bed.

“How’s school going?” he asked.

“I’m enjoying it.” but I can’t help thinking: It’s funny what he remembers,— or does he?

“That’s good. A man is nothing without an education.”

It was a phrase I had often heard. The first time happened at the dinner table my sophomore year in a new high school. Missouri was a big move with my dad’s job transfer from Illinois and his first promotion into management. I had made the varsity wrestling team in the 138-pound weight class: no small achievement, although my dad only made it to a few of my matches that year. Mom never missed one. The message perceived, — dad’s work is the most important thing in his life. I selfishly resented him for it. 

High school was a tough time for me, but I had no idea the pressure he was under. When he was home, he drank.

I still remember that Saturday in the kitchen; the three of us sat around the dark oak table with four chairs, eating steak: T-bones with baked potatoes and collard greens. Mom was silent, — cutting her meat. My older sister was gone, away at college, making something of herself. She would go on the graduate with her bachelor’s in a mere two years. She was always the smart one.

Dad sat there; his speech slurred while sipping his sixth martini of the night. He liked them dry. “I can get you into Annapolis, but you need to get off your ass and show me you want it.” 

The offer placed on the table came out of the blue, but at the time I had no idea of the volumes spoken in those few words. A possible future proposed and what it meant regarding the true weight my father carried. The power within the fact expressed of such an opportunity without any allowance of doubt. The gift would not have been laid on the table as an empty gesture. My father didn’t lie: “Always Faithful.” The contract was true, but to me they were fighting words.— I stood, the heavy oak chair falling backward with the motion, “Why the hell would you care?”

Mom rose to intervene.

My father stood, his feature’s stone cold, and I clench my teeth while my fists closed tight. I was ready to attack, but the old Marine’s eyes peered straight through me.

“Now you two settle down.” Mom’s words were the voice of reason. They carried authority, but it fell on deaf ears.

Dad never flinched. “A man is nothing without an education.”

The words were spoken clear and precise through the alcohol. They burned, yet they were expressed as a mere formality, sterile, unfeeling. It was actually his way of expressing humility. He was speaking of himself; a revelation of how he viewed himself. But I thought the words were directed at me; a reflection of who I was. And at that time, I was an angry young man with no tolerance and little understanding. What I heard: You will never amount to anything. And the words, — like a wedge, — turned me off from even thinking about academic pursuits. This was a course I truly regret, — a darkness within my past.

I smiled as I looked at him lying comfortably tucked into his bed. Thinking about his words now, I fully comprehend: this man grew up with nothing in the wake of the Great Depression, raised in a poor family in a small mid-western town, and enlisted in the Marines right out of high school. His only higher education was a trade school after his first plug in military service; but he retired in 1987 as “Vice President in Charge of Sales” of the eastern division in a major corporation in the air conditioning and heating industry. One of the driving forces behind Glenwood Carol O’Dell senior’s motivation was to give to his family what he didn’t have growing up. How my father accomplished this is his legacy: the true nature of his strength and intelligence, the true testament of the man. He understood people when it came to marketing and sales. He understood business. He could read people and know their strengths and weaknesses. Because of this, he knew how to effectively shuffle and reassign people into a powerful sales force — demonstrated in the Midwestern Division of the company, Lennox, during my high school years.

After a relatively quick climb up the business ladder in Missouri, they moved him to Ohio: the Eastern Division, with full management-autonomy to correct the weaknesses in the seventeen eastern states of the company. That division had run in the red for years. I had moved away by that time and had started my own family in Northern Illinois; but my father’s proven track record, built on his regional management during my high school years, earned him a promotion and within one year he had restructured the Eastern Division’s sales force and setup an advertising program that turned losses into growth— and profits were pushed into millions. The eastern division remained in the black all the years of his management style until his retirement in 1987. His successor failed to carry on my father’s legacy.

Contently tucked into his bed, my father asked, “Lynn, could you get me a glass of water?”

He thinks I’m his younger brother, “Yes dad.”

Earlier that week on Wednesday at the Neurologist,— I told Dr. Sarwar that my dad was calling me by his brother’s name more frequently.

She smiled at my father and asked, “Can you tell me the year?”

Dad looked over at me, distressed, “1945? Right?”

The doctor stopped halfway through her simple test of his cognitive ability and looked directly at me. “What’s your age difference?”

“Thirty years.”

She returned her attention to my father. “Who is this?” pointing at me.

“That’s my son,” he answered confidently.

“Can you tell me your age difference?”

Father again looked at me, distraught. “Two years? Right?”

“If he’s your son, how can he be only two year’s younger than you?

My father fell silent. His head dropped as he stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”

The doctor’s head shook slowly and with compassion, she stated: “He’s lost his comprehension.”

But I already knew that and I put my hand on his knee, “It’s okay dad,” and I reassure him, “everything’s fine.”

When living with people with dementia it is easy to see the decline, up close and personal. It’s a choice my wife and I made together to help my parents retain their dignity, so they could live out their remaining years in their own home. My business has suffered, because of the decision. But I don’t regret our resolution; after all, they took care of me when I was struggling to understand.

These days, the four of us sit around the light maple kitchen table at dinner. My father sits across from me. My wife is on my right. Mom, diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago, sits on my left. Dad’s dementia has differences; it was brought on by strokes. They’re subtle distinctions in the memory loss, but the final outcome is the same.

Conversation is light as I’m reading a textbook.

Dad’s smiling, “What are yah reading, Lynn?”

Mom’s voice is stern. “Casey,—— that’s junior.”

I look up at my future: genetics are the reality. “It’s okay mom.” Dad’s confusion is troubling him and I comfort him, “Everything’s fine, just preparing for class tomorrow.”

My father’s smiling again. “How’s school going?”

“It’s going real good.”

He nods, less confused, “That’s good. A man is nothing without an education.”

And I see the man across from me, my father, a truly great man; and I smile back: "I couldn't agree more."

Artwork by @josephlsilver

You breathed

New life

Into someone else's vision

Of me

Your broad strokes

And delicate washes

Literally painted

A new picture

One with more scope

And greater depth

More fueled by

The imagination

And open to greater

Interpretation

It depends not

On technology

But on focus

Carried through

The spectrum of

Place

And preserved through

The vagaries of

Time

I gaze at it

Often

Always wondering

Who that woman is

Whom you've captured

And seeing different

Nuances

Every time

I look

Someday I will have to ask you

What you saw that day

When you committed me

To canvas

Opening up your vision

For all the world

To see

But not today

Today I will simply contemplate

Again

And wonder

#artwork #challenge #poetry

I carry a gun for a living.  I'm tall.  I'm "macho" from the outside, at least I sometimes try to when I have to be.  So, I'm not supposed to have feelings or be artistic, right?  Sorry people, but I can't help it sometimes!

I love photography.  After discovering that I may actually have a hidden talent when a friend, who is also a professional photographer, viewed some of my work.  "You have a good eye for subject matter, but your composition needs work."  

"What's composition?"  Yep, that was my response.  I had no clue!  Fast forward a few years and I had gotten better.  I even had an opportunity to show Annie Leibovitz a portrait I took of my son once.  She actually lost her breath and said it was beautiful.  Yes, for real.  

My Dad is the artist of the family.  He's so good.  I finally thought I had discovered my equivalent of his talent.  The man can paint and draw like nobody's business.  I have trouble with stick figures.  But one day I was inspired to try oil painting.  Ok, truth be told, I was so messed up in the head from going through my divorce that I think I miraculously tapped into one of the genes that may have actually been passed to me unknowingly.  

I busted out a photo of a waterfall that I took in Indiana and decided, "I can paint that." And holy shit, I did.  I posted it above for your partial viewing pleasure.  

I once drew a robotic wasp. Or, it was supposed to be a robotic wasp. It looked more like a bumble bee who had an accident with a lawn mower, if you can imagine that...just kidding. It came out alright, but it was like, falling off the page by the time I was done. Maybe I'll do better next time...