My father made the mundane seem adventurous. I remember, as a very small child, loving it when he was home to help with chores. He often traveled, so this was rare, but he would challenge us to contests and tell stories about highly unlikely things each stray sock, toy, or leftover piece of trash had experienced. It made the drudgery seem like an amazing game.
My father took us places. They weren't exotic or far away, but nearby places took on new luster when we told us about them. We explored our neighborhood, nearby towns and cities, and any mountains or wilderness we could drive to and still arrive home for supper.
My father loved amusement parks. I suppose I still love amusement parks because of him. And hiking, he loved hiking. We would walk all day in the mountains, discovering hidden meadows and waterfalls and caves. Each year in the winter, he would tell us where we would be exploring when the snow was gone. The anticipation was as delicious as the experience.
And then we noticed the adventures began to be less rugged, less frequent. My father seemed to be resting a lot more. And at night, sometimes I would hear him whimpering or moaning. My father was sick. Very sick.
Post-polio syndrome took him away from me. He's still alive, but adventures are not something he can do anymore. They increase the constant, daily pain he lives with. They assure him of days in bed and difficulty eating. They are nothing for him to look forward to.
Still, when I visit, he reminds me. Remember when we visited the cowboy museums in Montana? Or when we went to see the Grand Canyon, but didn't arrive until dark, so we saw it, but not really? Or the walk in the mountain meadow covered in butterflies? Or that time we forded the river to go fishing and I stepped in a sinkhole and he had to pull me back up by my hair? Or the berry picking day when I found the bear?
I remember, Dad. I remember.
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