10/11/12

My father, Don McLean, was born in 1910 on the 12th day of November. It seems amazing to realize that he would be turning one hundred years old this month. In writing class, I recently assigned the topic; a memory of my father. Below is what I wrote about my dad for whom I had enormous affection. I took the above photo of my parents much later than the time depicted in my writing.

I thought my father worked at the train station in Summit, New Jersey. I went with my mother to drop him off every morning and at seven pm sharp every evening we picked him up. He dressed well for someone who worked at a station. He wore a tweed suit, wool topcoat and felt hat. His shoes were leather and always polished. He carried a worn leather brief case filled with papers and a periodical with a blue cover; Foreign Affairs. When we picked him up, he had a newspaper folded under his arm. He seemed pretty tired for someone who had been at the station all day. Little did I know then, when I was six years old that he traveled two hours each way to his office in Rockefeller Center in Manhatten.

Before leaving to pick Dad up at the station, my mother would change out of her gardening clothes, white sneakers, denim wrap around skirt and striped shirt, and put on a dress and slip her bare feet into high heels. She powdered her nose, applied lipstick and off we went. I could see Dad as we approached the station waiting for us, briefcase in hand. “Hi honeybunch!” he’d say as he got into the front seat and leaned toward my mother to give her a kiss. “Hi Sis” he’d say glancing back at me.

On arriving home, Dad went straight to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. As he lathered them up, water running, he would gaze out the window to the garden beyond. It seemed like a kind of transitional act to being home. He left the hustle of New York City and returned to this quiet suburb surrounded by gardens, dog and family. He would loosen his tie and go to the pantry to pour two drinks. He measured the amber liquid in a tiny glass with red lines on it and then poured it into two glasses full of ice. A ritual. Mom and Dad would go to the living room, sip their drinks and talk. I followed them.

I snuggled up close to Dad on the couch and listened while he told Mom about his day. She had opinions. She asked questions. She gave him advice. She seemed to know everything about his work even though she wasn’t there with him. It was comforting for me to see how well these two adults got along. When it was my mother's turn to tell about her day, she often had funny anecdotes to tell. On hearing her stories, Dad would throw back his head and let out a deep, appreciative laugh.

“He really loves her” I thought.