My mother and I usually spend one day a week with each other. It is a chance to talk about what is going on in our respective lives. Now that my Mom is 78 years old and I am 45, we can do this. It is hard to believe that two people, who used to constantly argue over everything when I was a teenager, can actually have a friendly and loving relationship. Over our ritual glass of white Zinfandel she asked, "What ever happened to the tool box that your Dad fixed up for the boys?" I had to admit that I didn't know. My boys, 20 and 25, are adults now pursuing their own destinies. The toolbox held ordinary, practical hand tools used in carpentry. Later that evening as I curled up in bed, the memories of two weeks in August almost ten years ago flooded back.
Dad, I remember you sitting on the side of your rented hospital bed, looking pale and tired. You had 3 tool boxes open and you were sorting through your tools and choosing wrenches, screwdrivers, and hammers, to go in each one. What was going through your mind? You had to know that this was the last time that you would touch those important pieces from your life. The work that you did with them had paid for pot roast on Sundays, the special yellow, lace dress that I had wanted for my twelve birthday, the baseball uniform and fees for my little brother's ball league. You have tears in your eyes, the first I have seen in my life. I didn't think that you even knew how to cry. I wanted to hold you and comfort you like I used to with my boys when they were small, or at the very least help you. God seemed to reach down and hold my eager hand back. This was something only you could do. I know that you have to be wondering what these tools will mean to your sons and grandsons. They may never use them, preferring the easier way with a "handyman" that comes in. They probably won't mold and shape the wood as you did, making beautiful shelves and cabinets out of rough sheets of plywood. How you must miss the garage that you built at our family home. It was your sanctuary. I would watch you for hours, running your saw and hammering, wanting only to be in your calm, steady presence.
You didn't quite get finished with the job of sorting, you just grew paler and I could see the white-hot pain fill your face and knew it was time for a drink of your morphine mixture. I had to insist that you take it even though you didn't want to sleep and miss a moment of what was left of your life here.
I am so glad that I had those last couple of weeks with you. I would hook up your portable oxygen tank and we would take your wheelchair out in the Florida sun where you could speak to the neighbors, watch the birds, and smell the flowers. We talked a little, but most of all we enjoyed our journey, a father and daughter being together. Sometimes the silent conversation was the best, the meeting of the eyes, an exchange of feelings that are still locked up in me. Dad, there are days I feel so close to you now that I could almost reach out and touch you. There is the familiar scent of Old Spice in the air and I know that you are near.
You and Mom are members of "The Greatest Generation", written about in the book by Tom Brokaw. You knew true courage. I often asked you about your experiences in World War II and you refused to talk about it. You would frown and say, �War is ugly but when you are fighting for your country, you do whatever you have to�.
I knew that you were on the front lines and the first to go into one of the concentration camps to free the victims of the Nazi's. The human suffering that you must have seen. Mom and I were talking about your war experiences the other day and she said it had taken years before you would talk to her. �He said that he saw so many friends killed in front of him, literally blown apart. He would write to their widows and wonder when someone would be writing the same to me.�
Dad, I know how softhearted you were. I remember you talking about the days you grew up on a farm and there were too many pups and your Father told you shoot to some. The look on your face when you said that conveyed such bitterness toward a Father that would ask that of you.
I miss you so much.
As for the toolbox, it is "safe and sound" in an attic, collecting dust and unused as you probably knew, Dad. Your legacy is in memories, mine, Mom's, and all of the people that knew you.
Written for Carl L. Carpenter 1922-1989
By: Kathleen Carpenter Stehr
March 26, 2000
A Tribute to my Dad
we lost him to his next journey.