Author of Father of the Man Peter L Colman

Fifteen minutes later, Uncle Jim’s car came crawling along the curb from the far left entrance, until he finally reached the spot where I stood.

“Hi, Jim.”

“Jeez, where the heck you been? I’ve been circling, looking for you for at least fifteen minutes! Well, whatever, glad you had a safe trip. Wish you had more time. I suppose you’ll be spending most of your time with your father.”

“He’s dying, Uncle Jim.”

***
It was getting late. I settled in at Uncle Jim and Aunt Joyce’s. The cottage had three small rooms and a tiny kitchen with the eternal nook in the corner (which also served as mailroom, study and deli). I slept on the couch, which opened into a spacious bed, filling up the entire living room. Mom’s apartment at the old Carpenter Hotel on Elm and Merrimack was ‘scenic’ and comfortable, but terribly small.

After greetings, I borrowed the old van, made the familiar trip down Harvey Road to South Willow to the Queen City Bridge intersection at south Elm, and north on the infamous drag-strip to the center of town. Mum had given me a card for the automatic security door (which anyone could use if they simply waited for someone to enter), and a key to Apartment 709 – seventh floor. Mum had her assorted plastic bags and other memorabilia (and the customary small Zip-Lock bag of quarters for Chicago tolls (God knows, she needed those quarters much more than I). I kissed Mum, had a quick cup of ‘fresh’ coffee, petted the cat, and started off for the V.A. Hospital. My Uncle Frank (one of my Dad’s four brothers, all of whom had served in and survived World War II) had been the one to call me and advise me of the seriousness and urgency of my father’s condition.






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