Just more food for thought

Last week my dad told me about falling in love with my mother. It took me completely by surprise when he said it was “love at first sight.”

 

It’s such an odd thing. I told my dad last week that I love him more than any other person. He told me I was his best friend. 

 

In previous columns, I’ve described some of the pain I’m experiencing; I want you to know I make a genuine effort to find bright sides to all of it. One thing–perhaps if my mobility weren’t reduced, I might not be spending as much time with my father, and might have missed out on the shared reflection time and the chance to grow closer to him. 

 

It’s true we have been close my entire life, but I never made my dad a priority like he is now. Every night I make sure to call. I answer the phone whether I am busy or not. And I try to see him every day. Most days I succeed.

 

There have been numerous incidents in my life where I have experienced “love at first sight.”

 

The earliest was my first crush on the neighbor girl growing up. As a young boy I kept wondering when I would start to like girls until that one day when the neighbor girl my age moved in. She and her older sister set up a lemonade and soda stand. None of my friends had the courage to walk across the street and talk to them. But I did. How could I not? It was love at first sight.

 

That decision to cross the street led to incredible childhood and teenage memories. We all became best friends. We made up nicknames for each other. My future wife, or so I hoped, “Sharon” I would pretend to propose to on the regular. She would giggle and turn red and we would all continue in our games and jokes… all beautiful memories now. 

 

Of course things did not work out. I don’t believe I ever really shared my feelings in a sincere way. Not that it was even necessary looking back. 

 

My friend was a wandering soul, much like me but different in a way. I desire to travel and return here to the home and people I love. 

 

I have no regrets whatsoever regarding this person other than a reminder to myself to enjoy the good old days while they’re happening.

 

One morning after we had stayed awake until the sun came up, my friend walked home. From my front porch I shouted to ask whether I could come over.

 

She laughed and smiled and said yes. Ahh to be a teenager. 

 

As I write this, it’s the night after I spent an evening in the worst pain of my life due to my back and I am feeling hopeful. I was couchbound in my apartment this evening watching movies and these stories and words popped into my mind. It is really quite the scene. As I look around me, I realize there is beauty in the simple brick wall with its string of small, dim white lights running around the entire room. I find warmth and comfort in the small collection of pictures I have cultivated over the past years, framed or not. A french coffee house, my favorite framed poem and another with my favorite song lyrics. A bear light my mom got me for Christmas. An electric fireplace I got from my sister. Three beautiful white-topped kitchen bar stools at the island my mom built for my kitchen. A guitar from Jon Lucca sits in the corner of the room, a reminder that when I heal, I will learn to play. Or maybe that I won’t have time because I’ll be too busy living life. 

 

I was surprised by my dad talking about love at first sight. Besides my own experiences, I don’t know how many times I have seen it and believed it.

 

Apparently, love doesn’t always mean two people are supposed to be together. In my dad’s case, even though the relationship ended, he promises–and I have no trouble doubting his sincerity–it was the best decision he ever made. Because he got us kids, whom he raised mostly as a single parent.

 

In my previous columns, I have mentioned the instant connection I felt when I first met my best friends Kyle and Anastasiia. Of course I remember meeting Deb for the first time as a high school freshman. I remember a similar sense of instant familiarity with her as well.

 

It is special to feel a connection with my dad through his stories. Growing up, Dad used to tell us kids bedtime stories. Except they weren’t made up fairytales. He told us real stories from his life. It must have been the newsman inside of him. Sticking to the facts. 

 

I struggled for a long time telling stories or writing anything fictional and I didn’t know why. Now I do. It was how I was raised. 

 

Dad and I played cribbage a handful of times this week, in back and forth contests. I won 21 games to Dad’s 19, however, I was skunked four times, my dad, three. 

 

This week’s cribbage tally updated from last week total:

Dad 515 wins, 79 skunks

Eli 468 wins, 49 skunks, 1 double skunk

2026 totals, Eli 131 wins, 10 skunks, Dad 102 wins, 18 skunks