Sixteen years ago this day, my father died.
He was born almost 68 years earlier, the long-awaited and only child of his doting parents, Cyril and Fern Stratton. Maybe because he was an only his parents, who raised him on an Iowa farm during the Great Depression, could afford to take so many pictures of their little boy. Maybe caring for only one child gave his mom time to glue the photos on the black pages of an album and label them in her careful handwriting with a white-inked pen–page after page of quaint photos in which little Harlan looks like a member of the Little Rascals gang.
It’s hard to reconcile the blond-haired toddler in the pictures with my dark-haired dad until I see my father’s smile and joyful spirit shining on the child’s face. Then the resemblance is startling, striking, because throughout his life, Dad was a child–even a rascal–at heart.
When we were young, he was our kindred spirit. My brother, sister, and I loved to be near him. We snuggled close to him on the couch, though we learned to keep a wary eye out for his finger pokes and tickles. He taught us silly songs, showed us how to make goofy faces, and laughed until he cried at the television shows that made us laugh until we cried, too.
On summer days, when Dad wheeled his chair outside and parked in the driveway, the neighborhood kids came running. Children swarmed around him as he told jokes, handed out nicknames like candy, and–until Mom put a stop to it–gave wheelchair rides to those daring enough to climb into his lap.
As the years went by and multiple sclerosis stripped away Dad’s physical abilities, his speech, and finally, his memories, when all he could do was lay in a bed or sit propped up in a wheelchair, the presence of little children stirred him to life. His eyes followed the movement of his grandchildren. His head turned to the sound of the high, piping voices of his grand-nieces and nephews. A grin spread across his face and he snorted with laughter.
In the presence of children, his spirit broke through the walls of his ravaged body. For a moment, the man we missed so much returned. For a moment we saw, that despite a long struggle against a cruel and devastating disease, our father was still a child–and even a rascal–at heart.
Oh, Dad, I miss your smile.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929–March 4, 1997
