These are stories about my father.
Vitauts has always been a card player. When I was growing up, I could count on one inevitable thing: at each and every family gathering, a card game would break out, and dad would be involved. But the image I have of him that is even more prominent than the many basement tables with poker …
Vitauts was a pastor for a long time. It was the life he knew and his identity for over fifty years. During that time, he was a respected figure of five communities and congregations. They referred to him as “pastor” because they couldn’t say his first or last name. And then, on November 2, 2014 …
Today, September 29th, 2015, I took dad to the doctor. He hurt his foot last weekend, or at least he thought he did. On Monday he told me that he would like to go to the doctor because he hurt his foot. I suggested that we wait to see if it gets better. I figure …
I have told the story so many times that it has become almost a litany. Dad was born in or around Smiltene, Latvia on November 1, 1927. Almost 88 years ago. I told him that today, and he couldn’t believe he has lived this long. He tried to remember how old his sister was when …
My dad moved in with me two years after Liesma died. We had to clean out the parsonage, but that’s another story. He has been driving the same 1993 Maroon Mercury Grand Marquis for about twenty years, and at 231,000 miles, it’s doing pretty well for its age. I could say the same about Vitauts. …
All of my life, I had seen my mother, Liesma and my father fighting and arguing. I recall one very poignant and powerful moment when dad had missed getting me to a doctor’s appointment and my mom just opened up a can of Latvian woman whoop ass on him in the car. What started out …
I have started to keep a blog of my encounters of living with my 87 year-old father. He retired last year, and he’s been living with me for ten months now. It seems like it’s been longer and shorter, if that makes any sense. I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but life just seemed …