Old Man Anthology

by H.C. Paye

  During the golf lessons, I tried to watch my stance and avoid slicing the ball. Golf was not my “thing”. He patiently guided my strokes. His big grin and bushy eyebrows framed a face of mirth, never frustration. “Nice try.” and other words encouraged my pitiful attempts to follow his instruction.

  “Steve, your fettuccini is better than Mom’s,” I raved.

  “You think? I’ll make it more often.” He beamed with pleasure.

  “Thanks.” I savored a mouthful.

  Steve shook his head. “It’s just a package.” He flushed from my praise.

  I loved the fettuccini, but more than that, I treasured sitting on a barstool talking with him. He prepared fettuccini twice a week for dinner. Eventually, I dreaded eating it, but I enjoyed the time we spent together while he made it, too much to ever tell him.

  He held me while I sobbed, because I had never known my father. I held him when he cried, because he had not been able to spend enough time with his daughter after his divorce.

  The fact that I quit high school, never swayed his belief in me. He gently nudged me to seek higher goals. Throughout junior college, he tutored me in algebra, economics, statistics and philosophy. With encouragements, such as, “You can do it” and “You’re so smart,” I believed anything was possible. Grinning from ear to ear, he clapped and cheered the day I walked across the stage and received my Bachelor of Arts degree in history. The words, “I’m proud of you”, meant more than the degree I had studied for five years to gain.

  The year prior to my graduation, I asked Steve a question. At 21, I craved a man I could call my father. “Steve, I have an important question to ask you.”

  I trained my eyes on the ground. I wondered, should I ask? What if he says, no? So much of myself would be laid bare. With one word he could break my heart. Dare I ask? He took my chin in his hand and brought my eyes level with his. “You can ask me anything. You know that. Don’t you?”

  This was a man I could trust with anything. I refused to listen to the doubts that raced through my mind. I plunged ahead. “Will you adopt me?”

  Tears slid down both our faces as he hugged me and said, “I’d love to.”

  Five years after he adopted me for my twenty-first birthday, I had a brainstem stroke and became a ventilator-dependent quadriplegic. Four months after my stroke, Steve was diagnosed with cancer and had his right lung removed. He tried to continue working, but found it physically impossible. After Steve was deemed 100-percent disabled, he assumed my care.

  I had caregivers from eight to five each weekday, and during those hours he caught up on sleep, ran errands, scheduled my medical appointments, filed insurance claims, cleaned the house and cooked dinner. In the evenings and on weekends, he fed me and gave me fluids every two hours, and cleared my lungs of mucous at least every three hours to help me breathe.

  He slept in the extra bed that was placed in my room in case I needed help during the night. Many times when I was sick, I woke him every forty five minutes to assist me. When I was well, he still got up with me once or twice a night, giving me a smile, making me feel loved.

  I was unable to speak, so I made a clicking sound with my tongue to call for assistance many times each evening and throughout the days on weekends. Regardless of the reason I summoned him, he came, whether it was to straighten my covers, adjust my shoe splints, apply lip balm, clear my lungs or tend to me in any one of a million ways.

  Out of the endless nights Steve took care of me, I heard him grumble “Damn” once. This was after I caught an upper respiratory infection that lingered for two weeks, and he was exhausted from getting up every 30 minutes to clear my lungs of the mucous lodged in my trachea. Never again did I hear him complain. He has never shown resentment or anger, yet he is only human and had to have felt it at some point in the past seven years.

  An immense amount of guilt weighed me down, because I watched as he grew older and my wants and needs consumed his every minute. I thought these were the years he should be relaxing and enjoying retirement. I voiced these feelings once.

  “Don’t you know I don’t begrudge even one minute I’ve spent taking care of you.”

  Whatever I wanted or needed was his top priority. When the days were long and my spirit became defeated by the vagaries of my disabilities, Steve selflessly wiped away my self-pity and made me feel wanted and deserving of his love and a life. He made the unbearable, bearable by simply being Steve. I call him Steve even today. You might wonder why I don’t call him Dad, Daddy or Father. He was and is so much more than that. He’s Steve. Today, tomorrow, and always, I will cherish the gift of his love. I can only say thank you, but the words could never express all I feel.

  “A father is a fellow who has replaced the currency in his wallet with the snapshots of his kids.”

  ~ Unknown

  Raise

  By H.C.Paye

  He sat across the table, cards fanned neatly in hands. Even though his were concealed behind black sunglasses, I knew he stared back at me thinking he knew my next move. I glanced down at the pair tens in my hand restraining a smile with all of my will power.

  “Raise,” I muttered, in a flat tone only a poker player could have.

  This stranger sat across from me gritting his teeth. If he even called, he would be all-in. With him calling my raises this far, I didn’t think he’d waste so many chips. He laid his fan of cards face up on the table. “Fold.”

  Now my smile couldn’t be restrained, I let my lips curve into a friendly smile. Ending this hand, I set my cards face up on the table. He examined my hand as I examined his—three sevens.

  “Players are now on break,” the dealer announced.

  I stood up, glad for the break to clear my head and start fresh again. A clammy hand touched my arm and I turned to see my anxious wife. I clasped her hands and pressed my lips to her soft cheek.

  “You look worried.” I flashed a charming smile.

  “It’s the last opponent.” She followed me away from the table and further into the crowd that dispersed. “It’s intense.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets. “This guy doesn’t know what he’s doing.” I walked back toward the benches. “Quite frankly, I don’t know how he made it this far.”

  Squeals of “Daddy!” sounded from my son and daughter sitting patiently on the bench.

  “Hi, kiddos.” I gave a brief chuckle then sat down beside them. My wife sat opposite them. I stared back at the poker tables, all of them now empty except for the last one. I could taste the sweet victory all ready. He was an easy opponent. It was an easy win.

  I turned my head to look at my wife; she had her cell phone out, texting vigorously. I silently wondered to whom she was texting and if she mentioned me at all. She paused her texting, looked up at me, smiled, then stared back at her phone.

  The room started clearing as people returned to their seats, and the dealer returned to the table. The opponent emerged from the crowd and headed toward the table. I arose from my seat and bent to give my wife a peck on the cheek.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  I strode to the table and returned to my seat. When I settled into my seat, the dealer began passing out the cards, and I collected mine in a tight fan in front of myself. I inconspicuously watched the opponent collect his cards trying to steal a peek at any card he might have, but he kept his cards under tight wraps, snagging them up as quickly as the dealer laid them down.

  Glancing at my own hand, I noted the three spades right away.

  “Raise,” the opponent said. He pushed several chips into play.

  “Raise,” I mimicked and pushed several more chips into play.

  “Call,” the opponent said.

  The dealer laid down three more cards in the center of the table. One of them was the ace of hearts, and I wondered the chances of the opponent having another ace. The other two were irrelevant to improving my hand.

  “Raise,” the opponent said, fo
llowing the same motions as the last round.

  “Raise,” I repeated. It would either be the rise or fall of me, but it was a chance I wanted to take.

  The opponent was sizing me up, I could tell through his dark sunglasses. “All-in.”

  I didn’t think he would be bluffing this late in the game, so I assumed his hand was a good one. I glanced down at my own hand. I already had a three-of-a-kind and there was a decent chance that I would have a four-of-a-kind before the end of the hand. “Call,” I announced.

  The dealer finished laying the cards down, sure enough, there was another spade in there. The opponent laid his cards down. I scowled. He had a full house. I laid my cards down in defeat. I had very few chips left and I knew that if I didn’t win the next hand I would be out.

  The dealer collected the cards, the opponent collected his chips, and I waited patiently for the next hand to be dealt.

  The cards were handed out and right away I noticed my pair of queens shining a beacon of hope in my hand.

  “Raise,” he said.

  I felt compelled to curse under my breath. This would me I was all in. I decided to go for it. “All-in.”

  The dealer laid out the rest of the cards in the center of table. There was nothing to improve my hand. The entire game was riding on my pair of queens. I chewed the inside of my lip.

  The opponent laid his cards down on the table. It was an ace, two of spades, queen of diamonds, another ace, and a king of clubs. I laid my cards down slowly.

  “The winner of the 2011 Poker Challenge is David Gonzales. Congratulations, David, you can pick up your prize at the north desk. Thank you for playing!” the dealer announced as the players departed the table.

  I walked toward my family with a smile forced on my face.

  My children ran towards me and I squatted to their level to receive hugs from them. I knew they were tired of waiting of sitting still and behaving for hours.

  “Did you win, Daddy?” My daughter looked up at me with her golden curls framing her face.

  I embraced her a little tighter. “Nope, Daddy didn’t win, but he tried his hardest.”

  My son took a step back from me. “Can you play Go Fish with us now?”

  My grin broadened. “Absolutely.”

  “A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms when his hands are empty.”

  ~ Unknown

  The Man of My Dreams

  By Jessica Kennedy

  At the age of six, I learned my father was not my father. My three sisters and I congregated in the craft room. Construction paper, paint, yarn, and magazines peppered the room. Each pursued her own project. I finger-painted on a canvas and myself in the center of the room. Tara sculpted clay on a long table decorated with paint stains, glue, and the refuse from dozens of art projects. Mary sewed a wrap-a-round skirt at the trusty Singer machine. Yolanda lay across the daybed in the corner behind me and wrote busily.

  “What ya writing?” I asked.

  “A letter to dad.”

  “Phil’s my dad,” I said, sassy and as if a matter of fact. Where was her dad? I wondered.

  “No, he’s not. Emory’s your dad mine and Tara’s. Mary’s got a different daddy, too. His name’s Tommy.” I blinked in disbelief. My other two sisters nodded.

  Emory, my mother’s second husband, and mom divorced just after my first birthday. Mom never hid the fact, but I never came to the realization that Phil was not my dad until that day in the craft room. Mom and Phil married after I turned two. As far back as I could remember Phil was my dad.

  Cold indifference described his treatment of me. I followed him astride the white banana seat of my cotton candy pink Huffy bicycle pedaling as fast as I could to keep up. Streamers flew outstretched from white handlebar grips. I spent hours massaging his callused runner’s feet. I attended his marathons. A consummate mimic, I cheered the Pittsburg Steelers on television when he did even though, I hated football. I tried everything I could to break through his cold shell. I failed.

  My mom and he divorced when I was 8. The only father I’d ever known left. Security evaporated. Phil disappeared from my and my sister’s lives... never to be seen or heard from again.

  Mom remarried and this man was so different from Phil. Gene talked to me and listened to what I had to say. He took my mother dancing and on trips to islands in the Caribbean. Fun . He was fun, too much fun. He drank excessively. About 6 months into their marriage money problems surfaced. He lied constantly about money. The Internal Revenue Service and numerous creditors clamored for payment. Married in Texas, a community property state, his old debts became hers.

  Whenever he and mother argued he took all of us girls shopping. We saw through his manipulations, but we enjoyed the fruits of them and the debt increased. Mother was determined to make the marriage work. She tried for a few years. No matter what she did she couldn‘t change him. An alcoholic is an alcoholic. Until they decide not to drink anymore, they will do and say anything to feed their addiction.

  After my mother and Gene divorced, I never saw him again. Once again fatherless, (not that he was much of a father) I was bereft. I attempted to initiate a relationship with my biological father, but he was resistant. I thought I would never have a dad.

  Without a daddy, I prayed for a man’s unconditional love. As a teenage girl, I thought the answer to my prayers were to be found in the arms of a teenage boy. I desperately clung to their words of love. Their love was temporary; when the sex act ended so did their feelings. Each encounter failed to fill the aching need.

  At age 17 we met. I think he was 45, with silver hair and kind laughing eyes. The day I met him, I began putting up walls to protect myself. Mother’s husbands had not provided me with the daddy I craved. My sisters and I looked at this new man and assumed he was like his predecessors.

  I guarded my heart and refused him entrance. With words and deeds I pushed him away. Regardless of how poorly I treated him, he repaid me with kindness. The years passed and his even-tempered constancy began to win me over.

  All of my sisters had families of their own. Steve was an excellent grandpa. He tickled, teased and shared his cookies with each grandchild and they adored him and my sisters and I started to love him. I think the treatment of those cherubic faced children taught us he could be trusted with our injured hearts. I found a man I could believe in unreservedly.

  I remember days with fondness that he spent patiently teaching me how to play golf. I never mastered the game. The time, patience, and enthusiasm he instructed me with were what I prized. He wanted and enjoyed spending time with me. He pursued a father-daughter relationship. This was a first.

  Four years after we met and one week prior to my 21st birthday, I helped him take out the trash so that I could talk with him alone. I had never wanted anything this badly. With the answer no, to one question he could break my heart and I would never recover. In a haze of fear, I took a deep breath and tried to pool my courage. “I know what I want for my birthday.”

  “What?”

  I stuffed my bag into the large rolling green trashcan provided by the city and tried to swallow the fear. “I’ll understand if you say no.” That was a lie, if he had said no, the words would have crushed me. I couldn’t have understood or accepted a refusal. I didn’t have to ask that question. Other possible requests flitted through my mind. Can I borrow your truck for a camping trip, get a laptop computer, or money? Any of these questions would have provided a believable replacement for my true request. He had no idea what I really wanted. I closed the green lid and plunged ahead anyway. I asked.

  “Will you adopt me?”

  I glued my eyes to the trash receptacle and held my breath as I waited for his answer. When he didn’t respond immediately, my heart lurched fearfully in my chest. I turned slightly toward him and my eyes lifted to his tear drenched smiling face. “I’d love to.” His arms came around me and the tears from a lifetime of disappointments from
men unable to be a father were spilled for the last time and the years of disappointment and heartache were washed away.

  Twenty-one years old in a courtroom in Placerville, CA my dream came true. We sat on a wooden bench together with fingers intertwined. He squeezed my hand. Terrified he would change his mind; I waited, smoothed my simple white dress, and chewed my bottom lip. I wondered if the judge could refuse us. Would they allow me to be adopted at age 21? After the bailiff called our names, I went through the motions in a fog of happy disbelief. The judge congratulated us. I couldn’t believe my luck. I remember I thought, finally, I have a daddy...the best daddy, Steve. Thanks Dad. I’ll never be too old to want a daddy.

  “Look in your shadow

  and you’ll find another shadow

  watching your every move.”

  ~ Anonymous

  My Day with Dad

  By Aaron Paye

  It was a sunny day, the sky was blue, and the grass on the lawn was green. So we decided to go to the golf resort.

  We got in the car, and drove there. After we arrived, we unpacked our gold clubs and started playing. Dad taught me how to hold the golf club the right way. He hit the golf ball first so I could see how it was done. He got a hole-in-one, and I said, “Wow!”

  Now, I stepped toward the golf ball and took a swing at it, just how my dad showed me to. I watched the ball fly into the air, and then it landed a few feet in front of the hole and rolled right into the hole—I got a hole-in-one too!

  After the game, we went back home and played golf on our Wii, even though he beat me on the golf course, I won playing the video game.

  It was the best day ever!

 

  About the Authors

  Salvatore Buttaci