JEAN DUFFY
It’s a risky time to be 90 years old and living in a retirement community. “You want us to come bust you out?” my husband and I offer.
“No. This is my home,” my father-in-law replies. “Garden needs tending. I’ve got things to do here.”
I respect his decision. I wonder if our home would be any safer. If he did get sick, I don’t know where he’d get better care.
Last fall I leafed through my wedding album on the occasion of my 30th anniversary. I was transported back to that crisp November morning ...
“You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” My father-in-law squeezed my hand in the back of the chapel. “Other than my bride of course,” he clarified with a wink.
On my special day, he sensed I missed my father, who had died of a heart attack five years earlier. I longed to be walked down the aisle by my Dad. He was the one who told me bedtime stories about a friendly cyclops, ran alongside my wobbly bike without training wheels, and gritted his teeth as I learned to drive stick shift.
Instead, my father-inlaw walked me down the aisle.
For some long-forgotten reason, the family calls him by the nickname, Pebit, rhyming with “debit.” I appreciated the nickname, as it spared me the painful do-I-call-him-Dad decision.
At birthday parties, holidays, and graduations, I’d occasionally feel a pang of regret that my own father never had the opportunity to be a grandfather to my two girls. But Pebit had it well covered. To this day, he teases the grandkids by swinging his arms into their personal space, saying, “I’m just doing my exercises.”
At the dinner table, he distracts a granddaughter with his bushy eyebrows raised, and then laughs as he’s caught with his fork hovering over her chocolate cake.
He always departs with the words, “Study hard. Make your grandfather proud.”
My girls were born into a family of engineers, including Pebit, me, and my husband. Yet Pebit outdoes us all with his curiosity.
A biodegradable milk carton hung in the backyard to see how long it would take to break down. Answer: nearly a decade.
He set up remote sensors and tracked temperature fluctuations in his freezer. Just for fun.
“I wonder if self-driving cars can detect a deer on the side of the road,” Pebit mused recently. Both of my girls landed in engineering careers; it was in their genes.
Last summer my fatherin-law celebrated his 65th year of family camping. This is rustic camping on the islands of Lake George, New York. The only amenities are a dock, a fireplace, a picnic table, and an outhouse.
Nowadays, the younger generations set up the tents and prepare meals. Pebit walks gingerly to avoid tree roots, does his crossword puzzle, and naps on his air mattress. It’s hard to watch him slowing down, but he always reports “I’m sitting on top of the world.”
Every year my father-inlaw toils in his garden producing a bumper crop of tomatoes. I help him harvest and deliver them to neighbors and friends. His gardening passion sprouted in me. I now have my own garden. We discuss seed varieties and commiserate over the lack of rain.
On my last birthday, I received a daughter-in-law card from that Pebit of mine. The word “in-law” was crossed out with a bold red marker. Below he scrawled, “I dropped that long ago.”
In late March Pebit was still grocery shopping for the soup kitchen, despite urgent requests from my husband that my father-inlaw avoid public places. I offered to send Pebit an email. “Maybe seeing it in writing will help.” Thankfully, he heard me.
The month of June arrives with the pandemic waning, inside and outside of Pebit’s retirement community. “The offer’s still open to come visit.”
“Let’s talk about that,” Pebit said, “but I have things to tend to here. The peas in the garden will be ready to harvest soon.”
On my last birthday, I received a daughter-in-law card from that Pebit of mine. The word “in-law” was crossed out with a bold red marker. Below he scrawled, “I dropped that long ago.”