Chronicled Memories

“Okay, kids,” Mother bellowed enthusiastically. “It’s time to go to the lake. Let’s get packing.” As a child, Mom’s momentous announcement could not have come sooner.

The cabin at the lake was the quintessential vacation mecca developed specifically for a child’s imagination, enjoyment and physical restoration. A well-deserved summer vacation at Lake George was my entitlement for months of succumbing brain cells to arduous educational activities. My adrenaline surged at the thought of overdosing on Coppertone and laying out helplessly like a baby seal in the hot scorching Sun.

Nestled in the heart of the Adirondack Mountain forest, Lake George village was a fun-filled vacation wonderland. It bristled with historical relevance, amazing shops, quaint restaurants and other bountiful gems of interest. As a wide-eyed, adventure-seeking child, the pinnacle destinations included the rides at The Great Escape amusement park and the light strobing splendor of Pinball Palace. With these enticements dancing in my head, I leaped into action.

At once, we scrambled like support personnel arming a WWII B-24 bomber for a long-range sortie over the China-Burma Himalaya’s. In this case, our aircraft was my parent’s Kingswood station wagon fully equipped with the very swag wood-paneled siding. I am certain it weighed as much as a fully fueled aircraft since we packed it solid with the two weeks of rations and gear my mother laid out carefully.

Dad took the helm of his road-weary beast with pride and stouthearted resolution. As a former Air Force pilot and officer in China-Burma, everything was inspected and double-checked prior to departure. All tires were scrutinized for proper pressure and tread wear. Weight distribution was examined with the zealousness of an engineer. Using a very sophisticated method of calculation, Dad would analyze the recovery bounce that each shock absorber displaced as he stepped on and off the left and right edges of the rear bumper. Unfortunately, Dad never disclosed what the success criteria were but I’m positive he knew exactly what was deemed acceptable. Once assured the pre-flight checklist was satisfied, Dad gave the order for takeoff.

The forty-five-minute ride felt like an eternity. We were crammed into the back of the station wagon, and the younger you were, the farther back you ended up. Depending on your rank within the car, you were assigned the task of holding something. The catch? You never knew what it would be, but heaven help you if your perishable item broke while under your watch.

Watching out for fragile items like eggs was challenging, but it paled in comparison to the responsibility of tending to the end of the main wooden pole—a relic from my father’s military days. This dried-out piece of timber was as long as the station wagon itself. Its placement required precision: not to interfere with Mom’s comfort area or Dad’s cockpit controls during the trip.

We had learned from Dad’s past in-flight outbursts that even a rear movement variance of just a couple of inches could translate into several feet of swinging lumber up in the front cockpit. The delicate balance between safety and logistics kept us all on edge during those rides.

To secure our longevity and comfort during the ride, Dad left the back window open for fresh air. Unbeknownst to him, the poor aerodynamic design of the rear window and the downward draft caused by the roof rack-fin did nothing but push hot, oxygen-depleted, exhaust fumes directly into our lungs.

Rarely did we dare to utter the timeless question, “Are we there yet?” Instead, Dad would scrutinize the state of the perishable item assigned to us. With what we later deemed superhuman x-ray vision, he instantly detected any mishandling and always knew a better way for us to care for the package responsibly.

As we turned into the camp driveway, our joy surged. Not only were we released from our duties, but as the rear liftgate opened, we stumbled and collapsed onto the ground, greedily inhaling nutrient-enriched oxygen from the grass blades beneath our feet. Dad chuckled at this ritual, perhaps thinking we were merely paying homage to the fertile ground of his rustic domain. Little did he know that our blue lips and sunken eyes, remnants of carbon monoxide exposure over the course of the trip, betrayed our true condition.

Regaining a semblance of consciousness, we sprinted past the lake house and straight to the dock. Our memories seemed stripped bare, and we marveled anew at the serene landscape: evergreen forests touching the crisp, clean edges of the lake. We scanned in all directions, standing majestically, taking in deep breaths of the cooled pine forest air. Our oxygen levels normalized, and we felt refreshed. But it was the water below our feet that drew us like moths to a flame. Were we so different from those seeking nirvana at a glowing bug light? In synchronized movement, we dipped and swirled our hands, gauging the water’s nipping coldness.

Of course, instead of frying and evaporating into a smoky blaze of bug dust, we merely flicked the cold water off our hands and focused our gaze on something else. In that instant, the fascination with the lake was gone. We were moths once again, now searching for another flame.

My father’s greatest pride and plausibly his most loyal begotten contentment was his 1958, seventeen-foot Chris Craft boat. Fashioned from the finest mahogany and minted with elegant touches of unique craftsmanship, all agreed it was a masterfully crafted maritime gem of the highest measure. Stored at the marina during the long winter months, the engine was meticulously maintained and remained strong throughout each year of usage. All would have thought a craft so pristine would be off-limits to our rambunctious nature and hoarding inquisitiveness but Dad was very cool about us frolicking and playing in and around the boat. We were all quite aware of Dad’s carefully formulated and uncomplicated philosophy when it came to the boat. Respect it, enjoy it, play with it but if you break it – you’re dead. A fairly simple philosophy that we grasped right away!

It didn’t take long to embroil ourselves into the routine of everyday camp life. After Mom served up her behemoth breakfast, we set forth on our obligatory duty to acquire our preferred spots on the dock. Prepared with the lowest form of SPF protection, we slobbered globs of lotion and bug spray on our virgin skin and freely sequestered to a summer full of hibernated sunbathing.

As the Sun broiled us like pork chops in a marmalade glaze, Dad began preparations on his fishing gear. Mom stayed back enjoying the coolness of the shaded porch but always provided vigilant oversight to her young roasting fledglings. As if orchestrated by Nature’s design as the perfect EasyBake Oven recipe of live specimens, the hypnotic, rhythmic lapped water against the dock supports quickly transported us to a succumbed slumber. Mom was always mindful of the time we spent under the scorching Sun. Every so often Mom would yell, “You better flip over now or you’ll be toast in the evening!”

“Get up,” said Dad as he nudged his bare, wet foot gently into my side. “Time to get ready.”

“Ready for what?”, we uttered in impish unison as we awoke from our sound sleep. Our inquisitive nature was merely a ploy for additional time to gather more of Nature’s rays but we were halfheartedly excited at the expectation of what was to come. Like a pack of pirates, we secretly agreed that a brazen mutiny would ensue if the prospected reason for interrupting our summer dormancy, was dull and boring.

Unaware of our fiendish plot, Dad hazardously glanced away as if more pressing importance was at hand. From the corner of our squinted eyes, we saw Mom sauntering down the wooden stairs to the dock. She was carrying her pocketbook.

“Get up kids. It’s time to go to the village,” Mom chirped in her ever-enthusiastic tone. Slightly invigorated into action, we sat up to conduct a quick review of each other’s glistening shade of golden burn. Proving faster than my Mother’s insistence to cease, we bolted to the camp to change into our lightest colored clothing so we could enhance the chromatic contrast of our beautifully acquired tans. Scurrying through the camp with a renewed vigor, our excitement increased the boundless kinetic energy inside us.

“Are you ready yet?”, Mom yelled back.

“Coming!”, we chimed in unison. Sprinting back to the dock, our kinetic excitement quickly dissipated as we saw Dad standing stoically with his arms folded.

“Alright. Calm your jets. You know the drill.” said Dad.

We knew what was coming. We knew that recklessly jumping into the family vessel with foolhardy disregard was not a component of my Dad’s master equation. Instead, Dad commenced what we drearily termed “The Ritual” and its completion required our utmost concentration and civil obedience.

Like handling a delicate flower, Dad took my mother’s hand and assisted her into the navigator’s side of the boat. After ensuring she was safely aboard, he quickly assessed the order and placement of each child based on the distribution of weight and overall balance. After we were seated, Dad then untied the boat from the docking cleats and passed them gingerly onto the bow and stern. With the artistry of a ballroom dancer, Dad climbed aboard without causing even the slightest sway or ripple and took his rightful place in the captain’s seat.

With the lake lapping against the now freed mahogany hull, we drifted aimlessly away from the dock. With a simple flick of the wrist, Dad could have awoken the behemoth engine and brought us easily back under control. Instead, the ritual required an ending worthy of theatrical drama and intrigue; which is exactly what the precarious proximity of the shoreline rocks provided. Whether by design or obliviousness, Dad turned back toward us and echoed these words.

“Kids. I want you to know that if the boat tips over, I’m going to save your Mother first, so make sure you have your life preservers on.”

Satisfied that his message was absorbed, he glanced back at Mother with a smile as he flicked the starter switch. Immediately his water stallion awakened with a thunderous reverberation. The engine’s exhaust pipes bellowed a loud baritone growl as it cleared its mechanical lungs by belching out a quick puff of thick black smoke. Purring like a panther on the edge of a low hanging branch, you sensed the boat’s eagerness to launch. Placing it gently into gear, we felt the propeller churn powerfully to thrust us away from the jagged shoreline.

Now safely away, Dad teased the beastly engine. Pushing the throttle ahead slightly, he effortlessly coaxed the boat into the open waters of the lake. Satisfied with the balance and trim and stowing away the ropes, Dad peered around in all directions looking for other watercraft in the vicinity. Content that the coast was clear, Dad gleefully slammed the throttle down as if taking off from an airport runway. In a chorused shudder, our stomachs tightened as the boat violently lunged forward from its watery launch pad. Within seconds, the bow came down as the boat trimmed out square. With minimal resistance on our hull, we glided effortlessly across the water at full speed.

We whisked away toward the village for a day filled with fun and excitement. A kid’s dream. At the end of the day and with dusk quickly approaching, we sadly plodded back to the public dock to make our return trip.

Once again, he would help Mom into the boat first. Then he placed us into the back of the boat. After the boat was untied, he climbed on and into his seat and before starting the boat, he twisted back slightly and said those same words.

“Kids. I want you to know that if the boat tips over, I’m going to save your Mother first, so make sure you have your life preservers on.”

Two weeks at camp and we were at the Village nearly every day via the same mode of transportation. Every time we went as a family, the ritual stayed the same. It never deviated once.

He would help Mom into the boat and then help us kids in. He then untied the boat, climbed on and into his seat. Before starting the engine, he turned slightly and said those same words.

“Kids. I want you to know that if the boat tips over, I’m going to save your Mother first, so make sure you have your life preservers on.”

The repetition in my story is intentional. You see, my parents had that camp for seventeen years. Every time it was the same ritual without fail. You can imagine as teenagers, how our anxious frustration mounted as Dad would recite the same song and dance. Being overly assertive teenagers that are anxious to meet up with friends, we felt justified to mock his silly ritual and hurry the process along by reciting the speech for him.

We learned quickly this was all for naught. Dad would only sit there unemotionally, maintaining his steely blue-eyed stare as the boat floated away aimlessly with the engine left silent. It was with no care that we were being pushed into the path of other boats. Dad waited patiently until our mockery terminated and we became compliant to his demand. With our chins jammed into our chests and arms folded with utter frustration and disgust, we ceased our mockery. At the moment he felt satisfied he had our attention, the ritual would begin.

“Kids. I want you to know that if the boat flips over, I’m going to save your Mother first, so make sure you have your life preservers on.”

To Trust Without Fear

A stalwart of the WW2 Army Air Corps, my Dad once shared tales of soaring through the skies as a pilot. As a veteran who etched his legacy alongside the illustrious Flying Tigers under General Chenault, he transcended mere rank and those medals he proudly displayed in a shadow box. At that moment, he was my deity.

With every word, my mind envisioned the magnificant skill he nust have possessed to navigate through the Himalayan peaks with B-24 Liberators through the narrowest of passages, as he flew toward China-Burma. For me his courageousness was etched in the annals of history, his name to be forever whispered with reverence.

In my mid-twenties, my mother passed away, leaving my father bereft. She was not only his dearest friend, lover, and dance partner but also his divine guiding spirit. Her absence left him a beaten man, and he began to withdraw from the routines of everyday life and responsibilities. After thoughtful discussions with us, his children, he reluctantly agreed to join social groups for individuals in his age group—those who were single, recently divorced, or widowed. It was during these gatherings that he met Vivian. Their relationship began amidst a whirlwind of group activities and trips, but it deepened over time as they cared for each other’s medical needs.

Even as he entered his early seventies, my father maintained a rigorous schedule, supporting Vivian’s fledgling ceramic business. Every weekend, he drove an hour and a half to Vivian’s house, pouring and lifting molds for her ceramic class students. However, life had more challenges in store. The diagnosis of advancing Parkinson’s Disease delivered another sobering blow. My father, who had always faced adversity head-on, now grappled with the creeping effects that threatened his freedom, mobility, and pride. As the years passed, he withered into a frailty I had never imagined.

After years of supporting each other, Dad eventually sold his house and moved into Vivian’s more expansive dwelling. Now two hours south of us, it would not be as easy to see Dad as often.

A year later on New Year’s Eve, Dad surprised everyone by announcing that he and Vi had tied the knot in a very private ceremony down at city hall. Everyone was elated because we all loved Vi. None of us were threatened by her nor did Dad feel she was a replacement for Mom. Both were secure acknowledging the wonderful lives they shared with their past spouses but knew that a new and full chapter of life still remained. As luck and fate would have it, these wonderful souls found each other at just the right time. We couldn’t have been happier for both of them.

As years passed, Dad’s Parkinson’s began revealing itself with a vengeance. With each passing New York winter season taking a toll on his frailty, it came as no surprise when Dad announced they would be moving to Southern California. We knew the environment would benefit his health but each of us languished the day the moving company packed up their belongings.

Watching my Dad leave was heartbreaking. In the pit of my stomach, I accepted that it may be the last time I would see my father. Parkinson’s had trapped my father into a frail, unforgivingly weak man. Even a better climate can not corral the inevitable. He may only possess a few good years before fate takes it toll. My gut told me it was just a matter of time before he would deteriorate quickly. I kissed my father and hugged him liked I had never hugged him before. I knew I would never play another epic game of pool with my Dad.

A year passed with letters and phone calls replacing those biweekly get-togethers. Dad tried to remain upbeat but I could hear his voice becoming weaker every time.

My loneliness for my father began to consume me. Out of character, I called my brother out of the blue. I normally called for birthdays and anniversaries but this time was different. As soon as he answered I blurted out, “Let’s take a trip to California and see Dad.” Before he could digest and respond, I gushed out, “He will get a kick out of seeing his sons and I know for a fact, it will make me feel better!”

After an awkward moment of silence, a solemn and dead-panned voice murmured. “I miss him too. When do we go?”

When indeed? I hadn’t actually planned that far ahead but I was happy to hear he was as miserable as I was. “What about in two weeks? That is Dad’s birthday. That would be the perfect time to see him.” We could hardly contain our excitement as the plan unfolded.

“Should we call first?”, my brother asked. We began weighing the pro’s and con’s. Dad notoriously loved surprises but too much excitement could be dangerous in his state. We wanted to concoct a scheme of letting Vivian know without making Dad aware. We decided our best approach would be to have a three-way call that evening and wait for Dad to get distracted.

Ten minutes into the conversation we found our opportunity. Dad had to use the restroom. Once he was out of hearing range, we told Vivian what we had in store for Dad. She thought it was wonderful and agreed to keep our impending visit a secret.

As the plane landed, I called my brother to find out where he was. He flew in on an earlier flight and had picked up the rental car. Meeting me out front, I hugged my brother and threw my suitcase into the trunk of the rental. Gathering in the excitement of seeing each other, I immediately plugged Dad’s address into the car’s GPS. We were less than an hour away and the drive gave us time to reacquaint with each other. Most of the conversation centered around Dad and what we expected his response would be when his boys came busting through his front door. We laughed at the possibilities and gave a little thought at the probable responses that he would come up with. As we dreamed up the many probable scenario’s, the anticipated result was always a grand smile on our father’s face.

Within twenty minutes of leaving the highway, the GPS guided us through a picturesque view through the mountainous passes. Once we made it through the winding pass, several housing developments came into view. The landscape changed from mountainous to desert-like conditions. I checked the GPS map and it showed we were less than five minutes away. My adrenaline kick in and looked over at my brothers face for his reaction. Although it already had been a long day for both of us, he was getting his second wind as well. Within minutes, we found ourselves pulling into the driveway.

Like the rest of the houses in this gated community, it was a quaint, twelve hundred square foot ranch style structure with a small covered porch in the front. What struck me as very odd was that no one had green grass to speak of. Instead they opted to replace their contemporary yards with white pebble stones. For someone who loved to mow his yard on a weekly basis, I was a bit shocked to see this. We peeked at the windows to see if there was any sign of movement. Neither of us saw anything but I knew that they were home. As my brother exited the car and headed toward the trunk, I grabbed his arm and said, “Hey – we can come back for that stuff. Lets just walk in and say hello.” He agreed and we scampered toward the front door and rang the doorbell.

Vivian answered the door and she instantly smiled from ear to ear. She whispered to us that Dad was in the kitchen at the table and that we should go right in. I could hear Dad asking who was at the door. We gleefully gave Vivian a hug and proceeded to the kitchen. Sneaking into the expansive kitchen with grins on our faces, we waited patiently for Dad to notice our presence. It took much longer than we thought, since Dad was in deep concentration cutting coupons from a local newspaper.

Dad was obviously agitated that Vivian had not responded to his initial question. “Vivian. Who the heck is at the door?” Dad lifted his head slightly to listen and began barking out another question.

“Vivian? Are you okay out there?” Dad paused as he became aware of two strange figures standing in his kitchen. Dad’s clench on the scissors tightened as he began squinting at the apparitions that appeared before him.

“Well Holy Mother of God. What the hell are you two… Vivian! Vivian! My boys are here!” Succumbing to the astonishment, an immediate tear welled up in his eighty-two year old eyes. He shakingly began to stand up and with outspread arms, he ushered us to give him an epic hug. Before Dad could take two paces we began embracing in a small huddle and patted each other backs.

Dad couldn’t contain his excitement as he cupped our faces with his large hands. “Vivian! Come in here. My sons are here.” Vivian returned with a facial smirk and joined in the raucous celebration.

“Yes Art. I know they are here. I was the one that let them in the door.”

We sat down at the kitchen table and before we knew it, Vivian had swept up the loose coupons and started serving light finger sandwiches and wetting our whistles with fine libations. Dad couldn’t stop smiling. As the evening progressed, Vivian excused herself for bed but insisted we stay up and talk with our father. He was enjoying the bantering so much, she didn’t have the heart of ending it too soon.

We talked about our families, our kids, our work but after awhile, I struggled to unearth from my memory to chat about that were engaging and interesting. My brother on the other hand had no problem recalling distant memories from our past.

“Remember those summer vacations at Lake George?”, my brother clamored. A glimmer and glean showed up in my father’s eyes. Bingo!

“Remember? Can you remember the boat rides we took to the village?”, I muttered. Dad sat silently as his two boys started reminiscing.

“And the SPEECH we always heard?” My brother’s chuckled. It exposed a tone of underlying cynicism. Dad loved cynical but fun banter. Taking the cue from my brother, I puffed out my chest and deepened my voice.

“Kids? Kids!! I want you to KNOW that if the boat flips over…”

Without missing a beat, my brother chimed in with bravado. “I’m going to save your Mother first.”

We both took in a deep theatrical breath and bellowed in unison, “… so make SURE you have your life preservers on.”

An immediate laughter ensued nearly to the point we almost forgot Dad was there. We noticed Dad looking back and forth as we took turns repeating parts of his famous quote. We each had huge smiles on our red faces and equally anticipated Dad’s half smirk, fake “shock and dismay” gaze and miffed disgust at our obviously poor interpretation of his grand ritual.

To our shock and dismay, Dad was staring at us and silently sobbing. We reacted immediately as we saw the hurt and pain swelling in his eyes. We surrounded him as if he would collapse any moment. Did we make a mistake reliving these moments? Were the memories too painful?

We huddled around him, each of us with an arm wrapped over his frail shoulders. We sought to comfort him in whatever way possible.

“Dad! What’s wrong?” we said together. He grabbed each of our wrists and squeezed them tightly. His hands were shaking. His grip hurt.

“You boys just don’t understand.”, Dad said in a shaky voice. His knuckles whitened as he clenched tighter around our wrists.

“What, Dad? What is it that we don’t understand?”, I said. My brother and I locked eyes. We were baffled, confused and equally scared.

Shaking his head, Dad uttered in a whispered but firm voice, “I meant every word of that. Every time I said it, I meant it. If that boat had flipped over, I would have saved your mother first!” He paused and took a deep breath and sighed.

“Now I am going to tell you why. After saving your mother first, I would have gone back to save all of you. I would have dived deeper than I would have ever dared. I would have held my breath longer than I ever thought possible. I would have had no fear to do whatever I had to do to save you boys and your sisters. I would have gone to the brink of death. I would have sacrificed myself for all of you.”

“We know that Dad.”, my brother said in a soft and reassuring voice.

“But you don’t know why son. I trusted that your Mother would pull me back to safety because she knew I would sacrifice everything. When you know that, you have no fear in diving deeper; holding your breath longer or doing whatever needs to be done. You gain an inner peace and strength knowing your wife, your partner, your best friend, will save you. I knew she would pull me back if all hope was lost.”

He paused and squinted his steely blue eyes and nodded confidently at both of us. “Your mother was the best life partner I could have ever had. I would have saved your mother first.”

His grip lightened and the shaking subsided. “I’m going to bed now boys.” We assisted Dad to his feet and adjusted the walker in front of him. Without any further eye contact he patted our hands, nodded his head and murmured, “I’m okay boys. I’m okay.”

To this day, I retain the vivid image of his grumbled body hunched over his walker and exiting with slow but deliberate shuffled steps. We maintained our silence as he vanished into the dark hallway. As each shuffled step became more faint, we kept our muted vigilance until we heard the bedroom door close. My brother turned and walked away with his head down. I wasn’t sure but I think he was sobbing and felt ashamed that I would notice.

I was now alone in my own emptiness. An overwhelming emotional swell gripped my core. My throat tightened and my stomach became sickly. I choked back my own reality as I made an instant comparison of my parents marriage, love and pure selfless partnership with my own. From that moment it was clear.

My wife, would have never pulled me back, if our boat had ever flipped over.

T.E. Snyder
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