It was hard to keep from laughing out loud. Instantly I wished my real father was there, the one I had sat with and talked with just two weeks before with his swollen feet on my lap. I wanted to tell him how funny and absurd this situation was. How hard we would have laughed.
Three or four days after we placed Dad in the Katherine Luther Home in Clinton, New York, and after I had returned to Maine to tend to my family, my brother Brad called me. He lives near my parents and had been to visit Dad that night.
The back end of my mother’s van is open. You can see Brad sitting in the back of the van holding the handle of a moving dolly with a full-size refrigerator perched on top of it. Dad is in the driver’s seat ready to drive Brad and the refrigerator the 200 yards across the way to my brother’s garage. I took the photo and remember how much they both heartily enjoyed the adventure even as I told them they were crazy. They had to cross the state highway, for God’s sake. “What if you drop it?” I remember shouting. “Oh hell,” my father called over his shoulder as he climbed in the van. “Quit worrying. This is nothing, kid.”
Heidi Shott Copyright © 2005 All rights reserved.