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In Loving Memory of

David Xavier Sheehan Sr.

By David X. SheehanPublished 2 years ago 5 min read
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Senior, Junior, and the III

From my screened-in porch on Estero Boulevard, Fort Myers Beach, Florida; less than 100 steps from the Gulf of Mexico. Retired and letting my brain and heart remember, STUFF.

Today is December 30, 2021. The gist of this story was written on December 30, 2013.

It’s cloudy today, for the third day in a row. The humidity and temperature linger as the only reminders of how lucky I am to live across the street from the Gulf of Mexico. If I close my eyes for a second, I can visualize the staggered puffs of some long ago “I think I can” choo-choo train struggling, after school, up the grade of Spring Street toward 361 and the warmth and shelter of Maison de Sheehan. I’m not shivering now, but I will never forget how. Each step against winter’s wind, whipping collars and scarves against an all already reddened face, like a jockey’s crop, urging me to move faster, until running seemed like a good idea. Crossing North Elm Street and passing the Snell’s and Holmgren’s houses would have brought tears to be so close to home, but both eyes were already filled, another gift from winter. Checking the mailbox, and skidding down the driveway, hearing Missy, our dog, get all excited because someone was finally home, and getting up the steps to her and the warmth that was inside, always made the cold disappear. “If your hands are cold, run them under cold water first”, mama would say, and “if your feet are wet, get some newspaper into those shoes and put them under the radiator”.

Once one was sufficiently warmed up, came the long laborious list of things that mama would like to have done, before papa got home. Usually, it was to get the house picked up, from toys and the like, scattered by siblings, Pat, Vicki and Andy, or bring the rubbish/trash out to the garage, when it still existed. If it was a Monday, there would be clothes to be brought in from the clothesline, which hung between the rear of the garage to a couple of beat-up 10-foot posts, which through the years my brother, Chris, and I battered with sticks and bats and screwdrivers and yet they would not die. (Wow, too many Cowboy and Indian, or WWII movies)

On a cold day, the bed sheets would freeze into a couple of rows of Red Cross flags, minus the red or a cross, as the wind tried in vain to set them free to sail across winter's West Bridgewater sky. It took longer when they were in this stiff condition, unlike the other seasons, when you could take all the clothes and shove them inside the sheets and carry them, Santa Claus style, into the house in one or two trips.

The rest of the day was normally spent fooling around with Chris or doing homework, amid my siblings, or reading or trying to watch TV, and waiting for my father to get home. One of my father’s unforgettable rituals was that he came home each night, usually at the same time, I mean like “Big Ben” time. He would come in, kiss mama and say hello, do a cursory adjusting of the thermostst, then repair (his word, not mine) to the upper bedroom chamber and change into his famous chinos and white tee shirt in the summer and added a gray sweatshirt in the winter. When he came down the stairs, it was directly to the kitchen table and supper. When the meal ended, it officially became evening.

Now, as I open my eyes, and notice the folks on the beach, some running in shorts and no shirt, that’s the guys, and others, like our friend Shannon, being pulled by one of her three dogs. I don’t know this one’s name, but he eats coconuts, yes, coconuts, he bites and shreds and destroys them, as if they were evil demons; when I meet her on the way to Publix, I always keep my backside toward him, even though my demons have long abandoned any evil doing.

I read a piece that Andy, my brother, added to Facebook today and it was commemorating a well-liked San Diego man, who recently passed. In this obituary, written by his daughter, there was a quote from Hunter S. Thompson “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!” This would be true for most of us, but not for my dear papa. I believe he would have wanted to be well preserved and ready for inspection as he arrived at heaven’s gate, shoes shined, nails cut and clean, teeth, brushed and hair combed.

I also know, deep in my soul, he would not have wanted to be late. For papa, every moment was calculated and planned and in his last days, as I lived with him at 361, how awful it must have been for him as he struggled with physical pain, and the frustration at not being able to rationally fathom what had befallen him or to be able to do anything about it. Putting all his trust into me, his oldest son, the one who was skidding through life broadsiding, smoking and using himself up, to make sure that all was done in a dignified way.

At age 74, I am not yet totally worn out and Wow! What a ride! It has been thus far. It has been exactly 32 years to the day since you passed and you set us free to take our own rides, I think of you often and the wonderful example of consistency you set, I love and truly miss you and wanted to remember to thank you so very much. As always, your son, is just sayin’….

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About the Creator

David X. Sheehan

I write my memories, family, school, jobs, fatherhood, friendship, serious and silly. I read Vocal authors and am humbled by most. I'm 76, in Thomaston, Maine. I seek to spread my brand of sincere love for all who will receive.

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