My dad's almost eighty.

I said that yesterday to the stranger checking me out at the local market. See, my dad came down to help me can tomatoes.

Canning was always my mom's thing. She was the master homemaker. She did everything ... and did it often from scratch. I helped once in a while, but to be honest, at this point in my life, canning does not take a very high priority on my list. But last year, the kids and I made an effort to go up to my home and can with my parents. Or at least, my dad. At that point, my mom was physically unable to do a whole lot. But she enjoyed our family simply being there.

So we canned. We had a good day, but it was difficult ... a lot of lifting, standing, waiting. I can't say it was fun at all. But I kept my mouth shut (there was a small miracle) and did what I had to do ... begrudgingly, but did it. Dad had all these plans -- short cuts, helps, etc. He really got into it. We spent the day canning, while mom watched TV with the kids.

I remember that day, because it was one of the few times my dad broke down. He's a strong old hillbilly, but he sensed and vocalized what I knew but was afraid to bring out: my mom was dying. I remember acknowledging what he said -- but not really. Canning tomatoes is a lot of work, so I kept busy as we talked, quietly in the kitchen. Him dealing with the reality. Me doing all in my power to will it out of the realm of truth.

That was the last canning my mom was a part of. She passed away last October.

Fast forward to yesterday. My dad came down to my home to help me can. I had worked yesterday morning (which means getting up and around at 4:00 AM), and he brought down almost 2 bushels of tomatoes. I started in, focusing hard and actually beginning to enjoy the production. My dad was carrying boiling water to help prepare the tomatoes, when he suddenly lost control of the pot, and spilled water all over his leg.

Immediately, his frail white foot blistered. We sat him down, put cold compresses on it, and called his doctor. He was fine -- but I was not. The whole stupid thing reminded me that my dad ... this man that could do anything, and who stands proverbally invincable in my memories and heart, is quickly becoming an eighty year old man. Just like my mom, one day I will stand over his coffin, questioning and wondering if I did everything in my power to be a good daughter ... did I make him proud?

I've been able to keep a lot of these feelings buried deep inside of me, with only an occasional bout of wrestling them back down into my inner places. The fact that my dad is almost eighty ... that I verbalized that to a stranger ... was like my first piece of preparation, you know? I'm not going off to bury him tomorrow or anything. But at least I'm beginning to deal -- even in this very small way.