For several years, Daddy came to my house every evening for supper. He preferred it that way. He liked to take the walk and he wanted to keep his independence. If the weather was not agreeable or he didn’t feel well, I cooked at his house. When evenings began to get dark early, it could well be dusky or dark when he teetered back home. He usually declined a ride, but I still needed to know that he made it safely and hadn’t fallen along the way.
As he went out the door after supper, I told him, “Turn your light on when you get home.” I turned on our outside lights and watched him as far as darkness would allow. Usually, several minutes later, his outside light came on. I switched my lights off and soon, his lights echoed from across the hill. That meant he was safe in the house and I could rest easy.
On occasion, his light did not come on. Had he forgotten? Had he fallen? Was he lying in the driveway? Had a pack of wild wolves gotten him? All kinds of scenarios raced through my head. Either my husband or I would grab a flashlight and head across the yard and up the driveway. If I was checking on him, I’d peek in the glass door or window. Most of the time, he was sitting in his recliner with his feet propped up and a thin fuzzy blanket pulled over his legs. If not, I would go in the back door, and sneak around the corner to see if he was in his bedroom or at his computer. I don’t think he ever knew I came in to check on the “little man of the mountains.”
I still look out my window from time to time, but there is no light echoing mine from the hill. Oh, what would I give to see him come hobbling down the hill to my table once again.
