The following is an excerpt from chapter three of the rough draft of a new book I am presently writing.  The book focuses on the last months of my elderly father’s earthly life, and the myriad of conversations we had during visits with him at The Oaks, an assisted living center.  Dad had just moved out of the house he had lived in since 1957, and away from the small town he had called home for over 80 years.  It was no easy decision for him, but it was one of necessity.  In this exchange, I was helping him unpack his stuff the day after arriving at his new home– a modest two-room apartment that would serve as his final home address.

       Together we unloaded the final container of stuff I had brought, giving us a unique opportunity to talk about things past.   In the box were a few pictures and some small items that had special significance to him. I placed the black and white five-by-seven picture of my mom next to his bed as he had ordered. Among a few framed pictures of family and friends, one item caught my eye. It was a small, brown leather book no larger than four inches square, packed full of names, addresses and phone numbers. Turning back some of the pages, I saw that most of them were obviously quite old—entries written in fountain pens, and even addresses without zip codes.

      “What in the world is this, Dad?” He stopped digging in his billfold long enough to look intently at what I was showing him.

          “That’s my little brown book. I’ve been keeping important information in there for years. Give it here; let me show you.” He adjusted his gold wire frame glasses, lifting his head high enough to peer through the bifocal lens at the bottom.

He fumbled through the brittle pages jam-packed with entries written in black or blue ink, and some in fast fading pencil. I eyed his knotted, swollen finger joints as they worked together in clumsy fashion to separate the pages that the passing of years had caused to stick together. These were the same hands, once nimble, that I had watched in the prescription room type medicine bottle labels at break-neck speed, and then accurately count out capsules and tablets, load them into pill bottles, and screw the cap on—all with the deft precision of a concert pianist.

          “Here’s Dr. Wickersham’s address; you remember him? And, look-a-here, here’s one for Chief Elliot.”

          “Chief Elliot! I responded incredulously. “He’s been dead since I was a little kid. Look Dad, his phone number has only four digits. How long ago has that been?”

            “I’m sure that you, of all people, remember Chief Elliot, don’t you, Mark?” With a slight tilt of my head to the right I gave him a puzzled look.

            “All I remember is who he was—the Police Chief,” I stated confidently.

            “You don’t remember the day Chief caught you playing with my German war souvenirs?” he asked.  And then, suddenly it all came back to me.

            “Oh that Chief Elliot!  Heck, yeah, I remember—I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I had put that heavy German army helmet on my head and strapped the bayonet around my waist, and was playing in the front yard.”

            “That wasn’t all,” he added. “You had that Nazi flag I brought back from the war, tied it to a pole, and marched up and down the driveway!”

            “That’s right,” I recalled, ”Chief Elliot pulled into the driveway in his police car and started screaming at me. I was petrified. I had no idea what he was saying to me.” Dad could hardly stop chuckling as he finished the story.

            “The Chief came into the drugstore afterward and told me what he had done. He was so embarrassed. He said that you threw the flag down and ran crying back toward the house. Chief said that the huge, heavy helmet was bobbing up and down on your head while you ran. He realized that he had scared you, and tried to call you back and apologize—but you were gone.”

            “I do remember that! I was scared to death of him from that day on.” We continued our laughing and remembering. “I think I have emotional problems as a result.”

            “What you didn’t know,” he informed me, “was that he lost a son in World War Two. Seeing you in that Nazi gear was just too emotional for him. He was getting on up in years and kind-of snapped.”

            “I didn’t know what a Nazi was,” I said in defense. “I just liked to play army, and your souvenirs were fun to play with.”

            “Oh, I know,” Dad said, still laughing a bit. “Do you remember what I came home and told you?”

            “Not really. I guess it was too traumatic a day for me.”

            “I came right home to check on you,” he said. “I let you know that I wasn’t mad at you. You were too young to know what Nazis were, and you were so imaginative when you played. I didn’t have the heart to tell you that you couldn’t play with my souvenirs anymore. I just told you that the next time you played with them, do it in the back yard, not the front.”

 

Just recounting this story reminds me of how God blessed me with these three treasures– worth far more than gold:

1. Growing up in small town America.  2.  A godly, loving Father.  3.  Memories– precious memories.

Why did I wait so long to discover what are truly life’s treasures?