The Sealing of the Paint Cans

February 15, 2006. It was the 46th day of the year with 319 left to go. It was to be another 46 days, April 2, the 92nd day of the year, with 273 left to go, until I would know a day as momentous as this one. It all began with a series of phone calls from Bill in Michigan to me in Connecticut while Mary, my wife was lying in the hospital in very bad shape.

It was only after I had definite assurances that Mary would be taken care of until my return that I finally agreed to drive the 700 miles from Stratford, Connecticut to Pontiac, Michigan. You're right, there is no way it is 700 miles, unless you take into consideration my perverse driving habits and turn north at Maumee instead of Toledo and perform a few other maneuvers that are simply incomprehensible unless you happen to occupy my mind.

It was not until the 13th of February that I left Connecticut and then only after many calls stating that Dad was not long for this world. Mary kept urging me to leave her in the hospital and get myself to Michigan, but she wanted me to stop at our usual place, the Budget Host Gold Eagle Inn in Brookville, PA, almost exactly halfway between each terminus of the trip. Great restaurant there run by the same family that owns the motel. I arrived there early enough in the day that I could easily have reached Pontiac early that evening, but Mary did not need further worry, so I stopped. Besides, there was something about the pickup that was bothering me.

I left for Michigan from St. Vincent's Medical Center in Bridgeport after saying goodbye to Mary. Heading north on Main Street, I turned onto the Merritt Parkway and lit out for the territory. Building up speed on the on-ramp, I noticed cars on the main road still going much faster than my truck and so brought my speed up accordingly. Looking down at the speedometer, I was surprised to see that it registered over 100 miles per hour. I knew that could not be right and so let up on the accelerator with, to my chagrin, no change in the speed registering on the speedometer. Once I got out into the flow of traffic and settled comfortably in the right lane, neither passing nor being passed, but just keeping up with the motoring public, I once again checked the speedometer to find that I was doing approximately 5 MPH. Quick study that I am, it took only seconds for me to say, "Speedometer's broken." Well, I still had the tachometer, the clock, the odometer and cruise control. Figuring 60 seconds for 60 miles per hour, I began doing timed miles and once I was within that 60-second range for several consecutive miles, I hit the cruise control and left it there until I got out of the 55 MPH area. It became easier once I hit western New Jersey and Pennsylvania since traffic was not so congested and there was less need to slow down. But more important is the fact that this speedometer incident gave me a chance to reflect on my relationship with my father, a relationship I insisted on making difficult for reasons still unknown.

Dad would have sat me down as soon as I arrived and would have diagnosed the problem with my truck in minutes as we drank coffee, while he sat at the head of the kitchen table and I sat to his left. Mary would have been to his right if this had been a normal trip. Years were wasted while I lived my life away from Michigan and while never drawing farther away from Dad, I never did grow any closer. Dad and I were strangers to one another even when I was a child. Dad was a gear head, a grease monkey, while I was a bookworm. Dad was an athlete (he played in the minor leagues for the St. Louis Cardinals) and I tripped over my own feet and still do. Dad had a practical common sense approach to things; I have always been a thinker of the very impractical sort. He always had a certain way of doing things and a reason that would back up his methods. There was a proper way to seal up paint cans, for example. It involved using the handle of a screw driver to tap the edges of the lid in a certain pattern that assured a good seal. No other way would do.

All these things seemed to matter no more once I took Mary to Michigan and introduced her to Dad. The two immediately fell in love with one another. He found another daughter while she found a father quite different from her own. Dad was quick to recognize Mary's intelligence and he was very proud of her, even though there was no blood tie there. You would have thought there was the way he treated her. Of course, Mary was a turning point in my life, she was the catalyst that helped to fire the change in me that allowed me to become a reasonably respectable person. He saw a change in me after Mary and I got together and he liked what he saw. It was now okay for me to be a bookworm; Mary added some sort of balance he recognized and of which he very definitely approved.

Dad was in and out of consciousness when I arrived on the 14th of February and I am sure I was able to get through to him enough for him to know I was there. He never asked about Mary but I am sure he would have if he had had strength. I am glad I did not have to answer any questions about her just then. There would have been no lying to him, but it would have been difficult to tell him just what was happening. I am sure he felt some sort of connection with her that allowed him to know what was going on. And speaking of which...

The paranormal, the occult and all that jazz do not impress me. I am sure there are spirits out there but I am just as sure they do not operate in any way that allows for human understanding; that is, I don't think they begin making rapping sounds or throwing jars against the wall or making clocks run backwards. I am sure these spirits do not cooperate with excitable "ghost chasers" who keep mugging into the video cameras on the various "reality" shows. All of this is to state what I witnessed with my six siblings.

Dad died on the evening of February 15, 2006. Almost immediately upon his death the seven of us heard coming from the basement the definite sound of someone sealing shut three or four paint cans. We all heard it and for the most part I never really have talked to anyone about it since it happened. I will say this, though. If Dad was going to have any final words, they would contain some practical advice, perhaps about how to cut your grass, put up a fence or some other project. Just as likely and just as important, though, he would tell you how to seal up your paint cans. After all, you don't want to sit there eating your arnj just to realize the one can of paint you need wasn't properly sealed and now is rarnt.