September 29, 1998, Last Entry

The days grow shorter and colder. The date 9/29/2008 approaches and will mark the 10th anniversary of my fathers death. Wilbur Gillian Cole. A house painter and a good father. He worked all of his life harder than most. Providing things for his family that many of the wealthier families could never acquire. A skating rink in our front yard where we could skate into the night while polka music played on the outside speakers. Wonderful memories that make me feel lost as I look at the modern world of video games and skate boards. We were lucky in so many ways.
My father worked until 1986 and had just begun to enjoy his retirement. A few issues came to be, like the cancer that paid him a visit in his colon. He thought he had won that round. Cancer is a stubborn foe, it would return later in his life.
My wonderful mother Celina, started to fade from our lives as well. Alzheimer disease started her down the long road to childhood and finally darkness. My dad struggled to care for this wonderful woman the best he could but when he no longer had the strength, due to the cancer which had returned, my mother was placed into a home in Spokane, Washington. My sisters and I made regular visits to her and she received the finest care possible.
At some point in time, during my dads struggle with cancer, one of my sisters left a message to dad on the chalk board in the basement. Uplifting messages to help him fight and remember that we cared. The messages were written with every visit.
The last entry read, “Dad passed away 9/29/98 3:15 p.m.” We all can look at an event that occurs right before or after the death of a loved one and relate to it as a sign that all is well. The passing of my father was no different in a number of ways. I will never forget the nurse who came into the room seconds after dad took his last breath and in a loud strong voice while throwing open the curtains said, “Oh Wilbur, you did such a wonderful job!” It really lifted the gloom that had filled the room and we started to heal. One of the signs witnessed by someone other than a family member occurred at the care center where my mother Celina, unable to speak for sometime prior to my father’s death, very clearly yelled my father’s name, “Wilbur” at or very close to the time of my fathers death before retreating back into herself until her death in 2003.
The chalk board and messages still exists but I covered the original with another board in an attempt to protect some family history.

Whispers of Our Fathers

I was born in 1955. I grew up in a time of this country when Americans made great strides and suffered numerous setbacks: from comic book space flight to landing astronauts on the moon, the civil rights movement, the birth and death of great leaders. Three channels on a black and white television was a blessing. Everyone stood and knew what to do with their hats and right hand when the National Anthem was played. As we stood and stared at the American flag, we would at times get goose bumps as it was gently “aroused” by the wind. It always amazed me that sometimes at just the right moment, this beautiful symbol was guided into its inspiring ballet by unseen hands and the breath of a thousand unheard voices.
My father, Wilbur, passed away on a sunny, cool day in September of 1998. Like most young men of his generation, he served his country in a war that had definition, support, and an understanding of the American people. They knew of the high cost should the war be lost. Our symbol, our heart of the nation, our flag would never enjoy the freedom to fly above its own soil without retribution.
My father loved the flag. Year after year he would march in our small town Memorial Day parade, proudly carrying the red, white and blue. He looked sharp and determined wearing the World War II uniform of an Army Staff Sergeant. He was a proper choice as bearer of the flag.
The day of my father’s burial was a busy day. Details, preparations, laughter and tears. I found myself at the funeral home asking to inspect the hearse my father would be carried in. It seemed silly even then but you would have had to have known my father to understand. I also made a request on behalf of our family. I requested that the funeral procession take a slightly different route to the cemetery than normal. A route that would take my dad past the house that he built with his own two hands after the war. A house that gave his family the protection, warmth and a place we could all call home.
The American flag had been hung on its support over the front door. The yard had been prepared for one final inspection. The air was still but clear. The hearse slowly approached my family home and the thoughtful driver paused for a few moments. The flag, which had hung motionless all day suddenly and respectfully, began to beckon my father to join the thousands of his generation who had gone before. Could it have been just a sudden breeze that unfurled the flag or was it the unseen hands, breath and whispers of our fathers?
For those of you who are of my generation, it should be easy to look at that flag and see the faces that surround it as well as hear the whispers. They are from our fathers and they are asking us all to help younger generations to hear, see and understand them as well.

Randy Cole

This story was originally published in the Western News in 2005.