A Place of Rest

Photo Credit: Kim Warp, New Yorker

I woke up about 20 minutes ago with what I assume was a hot flash, a thing that wakes me up almost nightly. “But you’re so young” people tell me. That’s nice of them to say, really, but I’m not young anymore. Nor am I old. I’m just who I am and nothing more, nothing less, in the middle of my existence. I have redefined my hot flashes as calls to action. It is 4:18 am. The coffee gurgles and sighs as I force it to perform its ritual, the smell already winding its way throughout our house. Today, is Dad’s 90th birthday party. Although it isn’t a “surprise” party, the fact is it will be a surprise no matter what. Dementia is good to us that way, taking away stress and panic, leaving joy in its wake. The big things get replaced with the small; there is no bird that flutters to our window that he does not notice and study.

Had I not taken on the daunting and dusty task of redoing our basement, I never would have found it. On a disc labeled “Old book” I had only one guess what it could be. Lo and behold, a few quick clicks and there was A Place of Rest, Dad’s novel, before my eyes. His obsession with the history of whaling and Herman Melville always struck me as quite strange. For years, he burned the midnight oil and pecked away at this masterpiece in the basement of our home. Summers in Mattapoisett (which means "a place of rest") were actually restless days of research as he visited the New Bedford Whaling Museum and historical societies of the area. Although attempts to publish were unsuccessful and, perhaps, not pursued as vigorously as they could have been, he would often return to A Place of Rest to check on it like a child that had been abandoned. I never fully appreciated just how much went into what he created until I became a writer myself. I quietly took on the task of transferring his creation to Kindle.

The other night I asked Dad “Do you remember writing a book about whaling?” “No, I don’t.” he answered with certainty. I tried to jog his memory a bit to no avail, an important accomplishment has grown dim in his mind. Having published A Place of Rest on Kindle last week as his 90th birthday present, I had hoped that he would remember. When I show him the e-book at the party today, he may or may not know what it is. At first, this bothered me and I wanted to cast a spell to help him recall the masterpiece of his life. Now, I’m at peace with his forgetting. It is what it is has become one of my favorite mottos alongside “you can’t put the shit back in the donkey” which I borrowed from Meg. Besides, I’d say his children are his greatest masterpiece and he remembers us all still. Well, one time he didn’t count me in the number of children he has but in his defense I snuck in during the 9th inning the sneaky devil that I am.

Though he may not remember this labor of love, I can assure you that his love for the topic has never waned. He was and still is a Melville enthusiast and knows quite a bit about whales and the industry that was built up around them close to where he still lives. I cannot promise him much but I will promise him this—I will carry his legacy forward with all my might and continue to dedicate my life to this craft of words. Here is, at long last, a place of rest for....A Place of Rest. Happy birthday, Dad. May this be the icing on the cake of your life. You are my inspiration and I love you very much.

A Place of Rest