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By Beth Broderick

“Dad, how are you today?” I asked, my voice projecting loudly so that he could hear it from the receiver lying on his chest.

“Oh, as far as I know … just fine,” he answered.

The hospice nurse had a different opinion of how Dad was doing, but this was his story and he was sticking to it.

“I am going to Dayton this weekend, Pop. To your old alma mater. To a conference.” I had told him this often in recent days but each time he heard it anew. I was grateful for the Ohio trip. It helped to focus the conversation. It was harder and harder to know what to say to Dad.

“Oh, you are? No kidding! I can hardly believe that!”

His voice had a tinny quality, as if it were coming to me though an old transistor radio.

“Yes, I will tour the university and give you a full report when I get back.”

“Oh, wonderful, my girl. Going to Dayton. Isn’t that something. Love you, my girl.” His voice was weaker now, barely audible.

“Love you, too. You get some rest now, Pop, okay?” I will call you tomorrow.

“Okay; sure, dear. Okay.”

I had visited Dad and his wife in Brookings a little over two weeks before that conversation. On that trip he still had enough energy to engage me in what would be our last caper together.

“Okay, Pop. Did you remember to tell your buddies that I am coming to the meeting?”

He was staring straight ahead.

“Dad, did you remember to tell them?”

The Philosophers Club had been meeting on Tuesday mornings for at least 15 years. During this time, their numbers had ebbed and flowed as the all-male and quite elderly group lost members to death and disability. They added folks on occasion, but were down to four regular attendees at this juncture. No woman had ever been invited to one of these heady breakfasts, but my Dad insisted that I come with him for this one. He was up to no good, of course. I knew he wanted to punk his buddies.

“I am assuming you want me to slam the glam, Pop? I’m doing full make-up, big hair, form-fitting dress, yes? The whole Megillah?”

“Whole Megillah. Oh, yes!” He smiled and softly pumped his fist into he air.

His wife shot him a withering glance across the room and let out a disapproving sigh.

“Slam the Glam,” he said. “Oh, yes!”

He was enjoying her irritation. When you are blind, cancer-ridden and not terribly mobile, life can be a bit of a bore. He was happy to stir it up.

The small Oregon town they retired to is the kind of place where dressing up means opting for a pair of closed-toed Birkenstocks. Folks were not used to television types around there and he wanted me to make his buddies squirm a tad. Give ’em a bit of dazzle.

“Okay. I’m going to get ready but — fair trade — you’ve got to change that shirt. There are oatmeal stains from last Tuesday on that thing!”

“Oh, okay, Bethie. Sure, sure.”

He began to rock back and forth, trying to get enough momentum to propel himself from the contours of his favorite chair. It took several tries before he made it to his feet and headed to the bedroom. His wife was irritated, but she dutifully filed in after him to assist.

Finally, we were both presentable. I looked like I was headed to a fancy lunch, which would have gone unheeded in a big city, yet stand out in Dad’s tiny town. He had on a clean shirt and his wispy white hair was combed to one side. I found a tote that would conceal the urine bag attached to his ever-present catheter, and off we went to punk the Philosophers Club.

He was beaming with mischief, and it moved me to see a touch of pride.

The two men who arrived first were, of course, surprised to see me. They had not been forewarned, but after a bit of discomfort deciding who would sit where, we settled in to a pleasant if effortful conversation. Dad was content pouring the entire syrup container onto his stack of pancakes. A man named Horst arrived last, and as I rose to greet him, he could not hide his shock at the fact of me. When he saw that he would need to occupy the seat next to mine he reddened a bit and kept at least two feet between us in the booth. The man to Dad’s left refilled his coffee no fewer than eight times, littering the table with emptied sugar packets and wet spoon marks, hoping I guess to fuel his effort to engage? Or maybe it was just something to do. Dad kept his head down and moved the food around on his plate. He rarely ate more than a few bites of anything at that point. After a few sets of folks had waved and one couple dropped by to say hello, Horst finally blurted out.

“This is all making me nervous,” he said in his slightly accented English. “I feel like people are looking at us. I’m not used to this attention. That TV business, I guess.”

Bingo. Those were the words Dad had been waiting for. Mission accomplished. He smiled broadly and leaned in trying in vain to stab a bite of pancake. Familiar with these efforts, his-well caffeinated buddy gently guided the food onto his fork.

OHIO

Sarah Alice, the nuts-and-bolts manager of the event I attended in Dayton, volunteered to take me on a tour of the university. She was terrific at her job, kept all the plates spinning perfectly … and somehow found time to guide me from place to place as I was ever lost in the campus halls. She must have been exhausted — she had been up first and down last for the three packed days of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Conference — but she is a most generous soul.

It was a wonderful event studded with great speeches and seminars. I write because I love to read, and I love the folks who put pen to paper. Three days in the company of such fine humans was a privilege, one I won’t soon forget.

“Dad, she was so nice. She and her husband drove me all around the campus. I got to see some of the original buildings. The ones you attended classes in,” I would have told him.

“Did you? They are still there, are they? Isn’t that something?” I imagine he would say.

“Not the theater where you did shows, though … that’s gone, but there is a new one that’s quite marvelous.”

“Ah, I see.”

“The view from the top is so beautiful, Pop. The fall colors are so brilliant. The trees sport leaves of oranges, yellows and reds so deep and vivid they look painted on.”

“Yes, I remember. Almost unreal they look. I loved that time of year,” he might have replied.

I tried to picture you standing there all those years ago … young and ready with so much promise and so much to do, but paused by the beauty. I can see your dark brown hair swept back and a worn jacket falling loosely around your tall, lean frame.

A young man on a hill when all the world was horizon.

— Beth Broderick

Beth is an actor, writer, model and chef. She can bring the funny and the pie. Read more of her writing at bethbroderick.substack.com.