Remembering More Through Love

Tomorrow is February 19, and my daddy, Carus Esmond Wade, would have been 107.  He gave me so much more than being alive!  He gave me parts of myself; I am only now discovering.  It is a celebration for me because I wouldn’t be who I am without him.

He was a constant learner, a lover of history, and loved to help people.  I cannot remember a time when he wasn’t reading a book, watching a documentary, or climbing on his trusty lawnmower to mow a neighbor’s yard.  But, his first love was to work on engines, fix cars, refurbish old cars (for his boss), and help single moms have reliable transportation. 

Several months after he passed, we got a card from a woman who had lived in Broken Arrow many years before.  She had been a single mom, and her car had broken down.  Someone recommended my daddy to help her.  (She said she had gotten the recommendation from the Broken Wheel Parts Store). 

He fixed her car so she could get to work.  He paid for the parts and charged her no labor. 

She said in her card that he saved her life and kept food on the table for her children.  She called him an angel in her card.  I sobbed reading that card because I knew what a soft spot he had for single moms trying to raise their children.  His passion was to help them. 

Thank you, daddy!  I am living my passion, too!  I can hear you saying, “I’m proud of you, Miss Patricia.”

1997

Here is an excerpt from my book, “Leaning Into Grief”:

Grief for Memories Not My Own

A difficult chapter to write

“He sat down in the middle and touched every inch of the disintegrating concrete and staring into his memories.

Although he never knew his father, I could see the recognition of what he had been told and probably memories that flowed through his veins, uniting him with his past.”

Memories That Are Not Ours

The end was looming in and out of our thoughts.

He needed to visit his beginnings.

And, so, my dad asked if I would take him

to his birthplace.

His memories brought us to the edge

of his foundation.

Forgotten by many, but never by him.

His search for a crumbling concrete slab,

took us up and down hills thick with

brambles and rocks that made walking difficult.

And, treacherous for him and his heart.

A marker of stacked rocks made him cry.

He turned toward a thicker portion of trees

and walked straight to the remnants of his

Birthplace.

I thought I might have to carry his frail body,

but the adrenaline surged him forward.

I watched him touch, sit and revel in the crumbles,

the rocks and the dirt of his

Birthplace

I was silent

waiting for him.

He pointed, he spoke, he taught,

filling my heart with stories he shared

for the first time.

His face showed less color, and he looked back

for the last time.

He gasped and struggled back down the hill

for the completion of our journey

and the beginning of his next.