adjustments, but the tape tells me that the adult I am today has more in common with the kid on the bike than with the person I was in between. It's gratifying to know that I somehow found my way back, and it's bracing to realize that my Parkinson's diagnosis played an important part in leading me there.
FAMILY TIES
The first time I saw The Honeymooners and Jackie Gleason blustered onto our old black-and-white TV screen, I thought, âHey . . . that's my dad!â Aside from his striking physical resemblance to Gleason, Dad was Kramden-esque in many other ways: imposing, funny, passionate, capable of an exasperation at once comical and threatening. He, too, could swing in a blink of an eye from âHow sweet it isâ to âOne of these days, Alice, pow , right to the moon!â Both men seemed to be at the mercy of forces beyond their control, but, unlike Ralph, Dad harbored no romantic notions about transcending his lot in life with a get-rich-quick scheme. Instead he relied on persistence, a solid work ethic, and his formidable intelligence. Besides, he had one very important thing that Ralph Kramden did not; the possession of which, I'm sure my father felt, made him wealthier than he ever dreamed he could be: a family.
There are a few key scenes on the tape that make me feel so close to my father, so overwhelmed by his presence, that I could cry. Each of these scenes takes place in a different year, but each is almost an identical replay of the one before. No one, not even my father himself, appears in the frame.
This is the shot: a slow, loving, left-to-right pan of a lit Christmas tree in an otherwise darkened living room, with particular emphasis on the bounty that lies beneath the tinseled boughs. The quantity of the gifts seems to grow with each successive year.
It's Christmas Eve and everybody else has gone to bed. The hand holding the camera is my father's. He's sitting in his favorite chair. A bottle of beer he'd convinced us to leave out for Santa in lieu of milk and cookies rests on the folding TV table beside him.
This was an annual and very private ritual. I know this because, on many a Christmas Eve, I'd creep down in my pajamas and stand on the landing at the bottom of the stairs quietly watching him. One year I fell asleep there, and when my father picked me up to carry me back to my bed, I stirred briefly. I asked him if he was waiting for Santa Claus. He smiled and said yes, âJust in case Saint Nick has to assemble something and he needs to borrow a wrench.â
My father's tree-watching vigils continued well into my adulthood when, home from the States for the holidays, I'd stumble in from Christmas Eve reunions with my old high school buddies, sit down, and join him for a nightcap. He didn't say much, didn't share his thoughts. He didn't have to. I knew exactly what they were.
During the Depression, my father's father (also named Bill) struggled to provide for his family in the Vancouver suburb of Burnaby. It was a losing battle. What little they had, they lost. By the outbreak of the war, Bill Sr., desperate for work, turned to the military. The army deemed him too old for active service and assigned him to guard duty at a military prison in Alberta. This meant leaving my dad, his older sister Edith, younger brother Doug, and little sister Lenore in the care of their mother Dolly. But Dolly was a mother in name only. In her husband's absence, Dolly could not handle the responsibilities of being an impoverished single mother with four children. She sought refuge in the beer halls along Hastings Street and the nightclubs of East Vancouver.
Dad and Edie took on the role of raising their younger siblings. They both left school early to find work; for a time Dad clerked at Spencer's department store. Dad and Dougie, two years his junior, were especially close, and they often wandered their down-on-its-luck, working-class neighborhood in search of diversions to distract them from
FAMILY TIES
The first time I saw The Honeymooners and Jackie Gleason blustered onto our old black-and-white TV screen, I thought, âHey . . . that's my dad!â Aside from his striking physical resemblance to Gleason, Dad was Kramden-esque in many other ways: imposing, funny, passionate, capable of an exasperation at once comical and threatening. He, too, could swing in a blink of an eye from âHow sweet it isâ to âOne of these days, Alice, pow , right to the moon!â Both men seemed to be at the mercy of forces beyond their control, but, unlike Ralph, Dad harbored no romantic notions about transcending his lot in life with a get-rich-quick scheme. Instead he relied on persistence, a solid work ethic, and his formidable intelligence. Besides, he had one very important thing that Ralph Kramden did not; the possession of which, I'm sure my father felt, made him wealthier than he ever dreamed he could be: a family.
There are a few key scenes on the tape that make me feel so close to my father, so overwhelmed by his presence, that I could cry. Each of these scenes takes place in a different year, but each is almost an identical replay of the one before. No one, not even my father himself, appears in the frame.
This is the shot: a slow, loving, left-to-right pan of a lit Christmas tree in an otherwise darkened living room, with particular emphasis on the bounty that lies beneath the tinseled boughs. The quantity of the gifts seems to grow with each successive year.
It's Christmas Eve and everybody else has gone to bed. The hand holding the camera is my father's. He's sitting in his favorite chair. A bottle of beer he'd convinced us to leave out for Santa in lieu of milk and cookies rests on the folding TV table beside him.
This was an annual and very private ritual. I know this because, on many a Christmas Eve, I'd creep down in my pajamas and stand on the landing at the bottom of the stairs quietly watching him. One year I fell asleep there, and when my father picked me up to carry me back to my bed, I stirred briefly. I asked him if he was waiting for Santa Claus. He smiled and said yes, âJust in case Saint Nick has to assemble something and he needs to borrow a wrench.â
My father's tree-watching vigils continued well into my adulthood when, home from the States for the holidays, I'd stumble in from Christmas Eve reunions with my old high school buddies, sit down, and join him for a nightcap. He didn't say much, didn't share his thoughts. He didn't have to. I knew exactly what they were.
During the Depression, my father's father (also named Bill) struggled to provide for his family in the Vancouver suburb of Burnaby. It was a losing battle. What little they had, they lost. By the outbreak of the war, Bill Sr., desperate for work, turned to the military. The army deemed him too old for active service and assigned him to guard duty at a military prison in Alberta. This meant leaving my dad, his older sister Edith, younger brother Doug, and little sister Lenore in the care of their mother Dolly. But Dolly was a mother in name only. In her husband's absence, Dolly could not handle the responsibilities of being an impoverished single mother with four children. She sought refuge in the beer halls along Hastings Street and the nightclubs of East Vancouver.
Dad and Edie took on the role of raising their younger siblings. They both left school early to find work; for a time Dad clerked at Spencer's department store. Dad and Dougie, two years his junior, were especially close, and they often wandered their down-on-its-luck, working-class neighborhood in search of diversions to distract them from
Similar Books
