Old Man in the River

My Dad, Philip Lifton, a great man.  Photo by Craig Lifton

My father passed away more than a year ago after a losing battle with Dementia and Alzheimer’s.  On my way home for his funeral I had some time to reflect about our relationship. I wanted to say something about what kind of a man he was, without having to tell his whole story but in one story that would sum it all up.

My father was an older parent when I was born in his late 40’s and our relationship was slightly different than expected. He wasn’t the kind of father to rough house, or play sports with. He was born in 1922 and was raised completely different than most of us.  He was very much into watching sports and reading books. A favorite pass time of his was to sit for hours working on crossword puzzles. Not very fun for a little boy, who was very interested in the outside world. My mother passed away when I was very young, forcing my father now to work overtime raising me.

I don’t have a lot of great memories of my childhood after that. There was a lot of time by myself.  My father still worked as a high school teacher in an urban school in the Detroit area. My two half brothers, from mother’s previous marriage, moved on with their lives shortly after the funeral. My third older brother left two years later to go to college and only returned during the summers. Most of the time it was my cat, and I, adventuring in the woods behind our house. Even with what I like to call the revolving stepmothers and families, two in total. I wasn’t abused or mistreated; I was just alone more than most boys my age.

My Dad did what he could and the one great thing he did was to encourage me to join the Boy Scouts. There I met people and got to explore worlds I couldn’t alone. I would go on the monthly camping trips, without my Dad, learning to build fires, tie knots and even canoe.

Than one trip I asked him to join, and was surprised when he said with a rarely seen smile, “what do I need to bring?”

With joy in my heart I remember helping him to pack a bag for the trip that would involve canoeing. I showed him how we would double bag our packs to prevent our clothes from getting wet if went over.

The first night he watched as I put up our tent, helped gather wood and assisted on cooking our dinner on the fire we built. My Dad actually sat around the fire with the other Dads as the boys headed off to our sleeping bags telling tall tales and sharing jokes. I fell asleep hearing my father laugh with the other men.

The next morning I giggled as my Dad complained about sleeping on the ground. His back didn’t agree with the hard and rocky floor of our tent. I helped him pack his things and to bag our gear for the all day canoe trip.

With all of the things my father had done, canoeing wasn’t one of them and he was like a fish out of water in the back of the canoe. We talked about a lot on the way down the river, and it was wonderful. He told me about his early days working in the post World War II Chrysler automobile plant, and working for the Small Business administration during the Korean conflict.

Than as we prepared to end our trip, for some unknown reason my Dad tried to stand up in the canoe as we approached the edge of the river, and before I could stop him we flipped right over into the river.

As I resurfaced, the first thoughts on how mad my Dad was going to be. I slowly turned around only to discover a smiling father, wet from head to toe, still strangely wearing his hat.

“I’m sure there has to be a better way of getting out of one of those things, right?” Are the words he spoke, and I still recall to this day. He was not the best Dad but he sure tried and that’s all I care today. 

I think about him a lot everyday as I watch his growing granddaughter. She is very much like him in her way. She is very serious, intelligent, but all the while a very caring person. I hope to be at the least half the man my father was and all the Dad I can be.  Thank you Dad for who you helped me to be.