Walking Home

When I was little, my dad and I would walk to Mass on Saturday nights, holding hands to steady me over the rough parts.  Sometimes we'd take the long way home, stopping by the gas station where he would let me pick something out of the vending machine while he talked with the owner, a friend.  I famously kept up a steady stream of chatter until we would get home, my father giving no hint of impatience or tiring of his ears being filled with the things important to small children.

Sometimes we would walk along the St Joe River, me begging to go just a bit farther until he would inevitably end up carrying me the last few blocks home, my little girl legs no longer able to keep up with his grown man loping.  Eventually we would end up back at the house and I would again have to share my daddy with all my brothers.

I went back to Indiana to visit my family this past weekend.  My dad and I walked to Mass together on Sunday morning.  Because being there with the Usual Suspects for the Rosary is important and the walk takes a half hour, we left the house at 6:30 AM.  I was carrying an extra-large high-octane coffee.  My dad was carrying a walking stick and proudly sporting a pith helmet.  He is into crazy hats. I'm past the point of embarrassment.  The man is closing on 80.  He can wear anything he wants as long as it doesn't land him in jail.  That was his attitude toward my clothing when I was a teenager, so turn about is fair play.

Now I'm the one with the long legs and loping stride.  My arthritis-free feet easily bear the punishing hard asphalt.  My balance doesn't wobble over curbs or uneven pavement. His pride will not bear any assistance but his walking stick, so I keep my twitchy hands to myself.  My ears are filled with the things important to old men, and while my interest in the subjects may wax and wane, my interest in him does not, so I care, because he cares.

We sat with the other old men who teased my dad about the pretty young thing with him.  The liturgist approached and asked if we will take up communion.  My dad got very specific instructions from her then turned to me and said, I hope you remembered that!  

As we approached the altar with the hosts and wine, I noticed his hands were shaking a bit and I mentally prepped to grab the plate if it tilted too far.  As we gave the paten and decanter to the priest, the priest grinned and asked, Did he make you walk to Mass?  My dad laughed as I smiled and nodded.

After we caught up on all the news after Mass, we walked back the way we came, me wishing I hadn't had to toss half the coffee out on the way in to church, my father admiring my restraint for not stopping for more.  We both kept up a steady stream of chatter on the walk home.

As we approached the house, I wanted to beg like I used to, let's walk a bit farther, just a little bit.  But I noticed his pace had slowed up the hill, he was leaning on the stick a bit more heavily, and he grew more quiet.

It was time to go inside and share our time with the others.