Love Without Conditions

Hazel wasn't happy.  I can still see her standing at the door crying as he backed his truck out of the long driveway on Rawles Avenue.  I was twelve but I'll never forget that disturbing scene of a strong, always-in-control woman crying, consumed by sorrow.  I was in the truck sitting on my sister Judy's lap.  Mother sat next to the driver, her new husband. All eyes were focused on the door.  Hazel fell to her knees and buried her head in her hands, her body heaving with sobs.  The truck continued slowly down the drive, backed out on to the street, and then drove away and out of Hazel's life forever.

He came to Indianapolis from the foothills of West Virginia.  At first it was difficult due to his backwoods "Aw, shucks" demeanor and native-American heritage.  Some folks confused him for black, and for no reason other than his looks, disliked and harassed him.  But he stayed until he found work in a local factory, joined a church, and eventually met and fell in love with Harriett Louise.

I was happy.  A new dad, a content mother (in the beginning, anyway), a house in the suburbs with my own bedroom, and a few years later, a little sister, Lynnette.

He had a great laugh.  I can still hear it so clearly, and he's been gone almost sixteen years.  When I take the time to reminisce about the forty years I knew him,  I slide back into that uncomplicated, comfortable, and safe space that he brought with him when he married my mother.

With him, there was no pretend.  No fake social bla, bla, blabber to win others over or insincere compliments to get people to like him.  There was no pride, bragging, or self-promotion.  He was a down-home country boy who didn't wear shoes until he went to school, and those had been passed down from an older brother and were full of holes,  but "I never allowed I was poor," he'd say.

With him, it was unconditional love directed right smack at me.  I'm pretty sure I was loved before 1957, but for a plethora of reasons--busyness, challenges, struggles of daily life, depression, fill in the blank--the words were never spoken.   If I'd had the ability to reason like an adult back then--which I didn't--I could have logically analyzed the environment in which I lived and come to a conclusion on my own.  "Well, of course I'm loved.  It's implied. I don't need to hear the words to know it's true." 

He focused on me; he made time for me.  He laughed at all my silly antics and childish jokes. He thought I was funny.  There was so much he wanted to teach me, he said.  He was the first person to tell me I was smart. Really? Me? Smart?  He didn't want me to make the same mistakes that he had made.

There was a simplicity to him that I haven't found in any other human being. He wasn't a Forrest Gump, but close.  His words and actions were, always, always, always, directly from the heart.  From 1957 to 1997,  this man whom I proudly called "Dad" adored and loved me and never failed to let me know it.

It took him eleven days to die after they told us there was nothing more they could do for him and unhooked life support.  He laid in a hospital bed in Community Hospital North unable to move.  They said he was in a coma, but we talked to him anyway as if he could still hear us.  Two days before he passed away, I spent the night on a cot in his room.  I wanted to have time with him alone, just the two of us before he was gone forever.  About two o'clock in the morning, he sat up in bed and said, "Please don't worry about me, Hon. I'm okay. I love you."  When I turned over in disbelief--he was in a coma and could not move--he was lying on his back with his eyes closed.  "I love you too, Dad," I said as I reached out to touch his unresponsive hand.  The next night Lynnette spent the night on the same cot in his room.  In the middle of the night she said he sat up in bed and reassured her that all was well.  The next day he passed away.  I will forever miss him, this man who loved me without conditions.