I posted here last week about the death of the love of my life, my father, Dixie Townsel, who passed on Father's Day. I post here this morning sitting at a hotel in Monticello, Arkansas, with all of my family from Texas, waiting for the procession to Megehee and, then, Dermott, Arkansas to inter my father's ashes and, then, celebrate his life with a kick-ass, all-day wake and barbecue bash. I have no doubt Dad will be right there with us, sipping on some Jack and loving being the center of attention in all the stories.
We made the decision to bury him on the 4th for so many reasons, not least of which because he served in the Air Force and will be receiving his military headstone and flag. He also loved the 4th, said it was one of his favorite holidays -- and, in that spirit, I offer again, below, a blog I wrote two years ago in celebration of one of what I believe was my father's favorite 4ths.
The Townsel clan celebrated the Fourth of July as we have since my small person, Sadie, was a tiny baby -- hitting the tailgate party and fireworks display in beautiful, downtown Waxahachie, Texas.
My parents and I took Sadie there as an eight-month-old because the Dallas Wind Symphony was scheduled to play, and she so loved the nighttime display that she uttered her second-ever word: fah-wuks (baby-girl for fireworks). A tradition was born.
Some years have been better than others. Some years have been hellishly hotter than others. Mostly, though, we've loved having a beautiful small town in which to share watermelon and chicken and a tinny audiotape of the 1812 Overture piped through public speakers.
This year's event was so special, it brought tears to all our eyes. This year, my Dad could actually see the fireworks.
One month ago, my father had cataract surgery in his left eye -- and he opted to pay a total of $7,000 above and beyond the costs Medicare typically covers to get the cutting-edge crystal lens for both eyes. (His second surgery will occur in the month ahead.)
For decades, my father's eyesight has been fading slowly. He remembers having trouble distinguishing colors as a teen, when he enjoyed 20/20 vision. As he got older, though, he began to need glasses. Then bifocals. Then stronger lenses. He completely lost the ability to see colors, relying upon the intensity of the greys he could perceive to assign "colors" to the world around him.
Dad fought his eyes' aging process, then eventually gave in. Sort of. He always used money as his excuse not to take good care of his eyes: His children needing something worse. His eyes weren't really that bad. Something needed bought or repaired around the house. When he finally broke down and went to the eye doctor, he'd get new glasses -- then wear those for another 10 years.
In May, it became clear that Dad needed cataract surgery. And Medicare was willing to pay for only so much. The crystal lens surgery was really what he needed and wanted to recover his sight, but seven grand is a lot of dough when you're on a fixed income.
He put the surgery off for a few weeks, torn by wanting the expensive crystal lenses and spending the money. We begged, pleaded, begged some more. His wife finally talked him into it, and off he went for the first surgery, excited, filled with trepedation and, typical for Dad, convinced the money he was spending just wouldn't be worth it.
By the end of his day of surgery, he couldn't believe how much clearer his eyesight was. Even better, he couldn't believe how bright and clear many colors were to him. Colors he hadn't seen in years! Colors he had forgotten! Colors he had been misidentifying for two decades, relying as he had been upon the shades of grey that were all he could see.
Every day for the last three weeks, his eyesight has gotten better by the day. Measurably better. Dad is like a kid in a candy store, and he's hard at work, relearning his colors.
It's something I should have thought about as we spread our blankets for the fireworks display in Waxahachie. After we settled in, Dad quietly said, "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to this tonight!"
Me, too, Dad. "Every year since Sadie was a baby, we've come here, and I've enjoyed coming, but I've never been able to really see the fireworks."
Wow. Dad. "You guys would ooh and ahh and I'd be glad you were enjoying yourself, but I just couldn't see it. I had to take your word for it. But tonight, I'm going to be able to see the fireworks myself for the first time."
When the first firework went off, Dad caught his breath -- and, then, he turned into the boy he must have been before he had any of us. Before he denied himself basics like glasses or new clothes because he had five children.
For the entire 30 minutes, he gasped. He'd shout, "That's blue -- that's blue, right? Or is that purple?" and "Ohhhh, that one's beautiful!" He whistled low. He hugged on Sadie and talked about a particular shade of green or orange or red.
For the entire 30 minutes, he SAW. He saw. For the first time. With me. With his wife. With his granddaughter.
He was happier than I've heard him in years. And he kept wiping away tears.
For once, he no longer questions the value of spending $7K on himself.
Talk about your Independence Days!