WHAT’S UP -- steve smith

It was supposed to be a routine trip to visit my father in the hospital,

where he had been for almost six months. Six months, just lying in bed

while doctors poked and prodded and nurses checked and changed.

On that stunning Saturday morning three weeks ago, however, a young,

energetic physical therapist named “Robert” burst into the room and asked

me if I wanted to help him get my father out of bed so he could take him

for a walk. I read Robert’s face for signs of kidding, but he was

serious.

We helped my father into a wheelchair, his tubes trailing behind like

jellyfish tentacles. Out in the hall, Robert fastened a wide strap around

my father’s waist and used it to help him out of the wheelchair and onto

a walker.

While I stood there stunned, my father, 86, walked 15 yards down the

hospital hallway before getting too tired to go any farther. “Robert, I

never thought I’d see him do that again,” I said.

Back in the wheelchair, I rolled him out to the hospital garden. For the

next 45 minutes, we held hands and he watched his two youngest

grandchildren climb and run and collect grass stains on their pants. One

of my father’s surgeries took out his voice 12 years ago, but nothing

needed to be said -- I saw the joy in his eyes.

My routine was to follow up each Saturday visit with a Wednesday night

visit. But the Wednesday following the garden visit, I was ill and stayed

home. The next day, he died in his sleep.

So, instead of seeing him slipping away, as I would have had I gone

Wednesday night, my last memory of my father is one of my best. There is

no doubt in my mind that my last visit on Saturday was a gift from God.

Several weeks ago, I spent one hospital visit going over some old family

history. I knew, for example, that my father had run away from his

Catskill, N.Y., home in 1929 at age 15. But I never knew that an uncle

had abetted his escape by driving him into Manhattan and had even given

him the princely sum of $200 to get him started. That was a lot of money

back then. I also found out that my father doesn’t much care for the city

of St. Louis.

My father’s life -- all that he stood for and all that he taught me -- is

defined by what happened on Dec. 8, 1941. That day, my father stood in

line in the cold with thousands of other men and enlisted in the Army. He

was 27 years old.

It was, of course, the day after Pearl Harbor, but it could have been any

number of events which would have prompted such a show of support. That’s

the way things were back then. Long before John Kennedy spoke the words,

people wondered what they could do for their country, never wavering in

their devotion to the cause of the common good.

The nation’s women played a part, too. My mother was one of the members

of the first WAC (Women’s Army Corps) unit to go overseas, enlisting not

long after my dad. Now, I read that women are leaving the armed forces in

record numbers because it’s not what they expected. So much for

commitment.

Today, it’s OK to walk away from commitments. Did you amass too much

debt? No problem, the courts have an easy way out for you. Boot camp not

for you? Leave after two months as one recruit just did. Never mind that

you put your signature on an agreement with the United States government.

Bored with your spouse? Walk away. It’s OK. Half of American couples

still break the vow they took before God, friends and family.

Today, we no longer marvel at anything. Where my father’s generation

stood wide-eyed at the technological advances of their day, our

generations have come to expect them. Instead, we celebrate the shallow

accomplishments of our celebrity society. It is more than tragic that the

mourning of the loss of Mother Theresa paled in comparison to that of

Princess Diana.

Yes, I suppose there is the bitterness of the loss of my father talking

here -- I won’t deny that. Or perhaps I’m bitter over the little piece of

America he took with him when he died.

* STEVE SMITH is a Costa Mesa resident and freelance writer. Replies can

be sent to the Daily Pilot at (949) 642-6086, by e-mail at o7

dailypilot@latimes.comf7 , or to Steve at o7 stsmth19@idt.netf7 .