2021 February – I’ll always remember the last time I got Dad into a kayak. I was home in Rochester from Ireland risking a visit to see my parents just this last September. The lockdown had been grim enough already on the emerald island, but the real kick in the teeth was that any semblance of summer weather days had skipped over us entirely this year. I had been nostalgic for Fall in upstate New York, so imagine my delight when I got the best of both worlds for my visit: the autumnal turning of the leaves and a warm sunny Indian summer!
My parents and I shared a lot of adventures for this time. We took Sunday drives around the Genesee canal, sat around campfires, ate Bill Grays cheeseburgers, & visited country stores in search of the perfect pumpkin pie. We even rented a place up on Fourth Lake in the majesty of the Adirondack Mountains, in homage to our many family trips to Raquette Lake. The sunny days were perfect as we toured the local Hardware Store of Old Forge, and the great American diners of a lost world. Those days faded too quickly, like the golden autumnal sunset dipping across a burnt sienna horizon, as we toasted our happy hour cocktails at the splashing loons from our lakeside Adirondack chairs.
The weeks spent together, from Adirondacks and back to Rochester, were full of fond memories like these, streaks of nostalgia stoking the fires along with the forging of new memories together. But by far the time I remember most, was the drive I took with dad to Casey Park, Ontario, on my birthday. We jerry-rigged his kayak to his open trunk, although Dad played coy about whether he would use it himself. Always the delegator of tasks, I think he just wanted to watch me using it and being happy in this peaceful small lake oasis that had always been his private little paradise. We listened to triumphantly drumming symphonies on the drive out and as I got the kayak out, Dad bellowed out his rendition of Happy Birthday, before cracking open a small ceremonial airplane bottle of bourbon to share. He told me to take my time and enjoy the paddling, while he sat dockside fishing meditatively. I had a great commune with nature on that stretch of water, snapping photos along the way of sunbathing turtles and mighty grey herons. I could see the peace of this park coming to life with every emerging color-pop, and a kaleidoscopic overhang of maple leafs.
On my return to the dock, my dad started to beam at me and seemed to project that he wanted his turn now, not content to allow this moment pass by as a mere vicarious one. And said, “maybe I’ll give it a try if you think you can hoist me in.” His hips had become so frail through the years, his steps were small, his body always teetering. I was nervous at first but feigned confidence so that he would surrender his trust. I helped him sit at the edge and swing his legs down to the mooring spot, we got his life jacket on and stood him up behind the kayak. I came behind him and gave him a solid bearhug to hoist him off the ground, he felt lighter than I expected, and he went still like a doll. I felt the rough skin of his face on my neck, and his quietness as he held his breath with a twinge of pain and expectancy. I dropped him in with ease, and with a push he was gliding off into his perfect paradise.
I stood and watched him head off for his own adventure, paddling lightly, no longer hindered by his fragility, coasting along with ease. He would only look back once to wave. He would pause often looking off pensively along the water’s edge. He would hoot and holler with joy. And then he would round the small lake’s bend, and disappear into his own eternal wilderness. I am overwhelmed now at this memory, filled with joy, sadness, grief and celebration… and I am haunted by the majestic beauty of these waters, as they continue to whisper the music of my father.
Paul Carreo 