Sterling H. Ivison, Jr.

Six months ago, my dear father died. I don't think he had an enemy in the world, such a gracious, generous gentleman. For the 5 years he was living in Narragansett, slowly succumbing to Alzheimer's, I was his pal, his support, his protection, his medical advocate. We developed a daily rhythm. He was able to spend the night by himself, in his own home 5 doors up from us. I would show up early in the morning and help out with breakfast, then go to the studio downstairs to work on my beads, always with an ear open for what he might need upstairs.

Dad's house, like ours, is on the Narrow River in Narragansett. He loved to sit in the living room, the TV turned to the Weather Station, his eyes mostly turned towards the river. In the spring and fall, he would enjoy seeing the URI crew team row by his house (he was on the crew with MIT as an undergrad). Year 'round, he loved to watch the birds and squirrels feed on his back deck. If the weather wasn't too cold or rainy, Dad would venture out for a walk, twice a day. He was a sailor and a Naval officer, a lover of maps, directions. He never lost that bump of location and always found his way home from his neighborhood walks. In the morning, he would head out in one direction, in the afternoon, he would head out in the other. He was never gone long - maybe 15 minutes of fresh air. I always kept an ear out for his return up the front steps.

On days when the weather didn't cooperate, I'd pop a Lawrence Welk tape into the VCR. Dad loved the old music, and I could hear him tapping his feet in time with it, and sometimes even clapping along. It always raised his spirits (and mine!).

When Dad moved up from his Washington, DC, home of 44 years, he'd been living alone, a widower, for 6 years. He left old friends behind, but he had an instant family with Ted and me and the boys. Most dinners were down at our house, Dad making the walk down the hill in time to keep me company while I worked in the kitchen. I'd take him home when Ted washed the dishes and would get him ready for bed and tuck him in. Roles reversed, both of us fine with that.

Dad's last months were hard on both of us. Moved into assisted living when I could no longer cope, and then to a nursing home, Hospice helped him make a dignified exit. It was time, and he'd long said he had had a happy life and was ready for the next step. But no matter how natural this cycle of life and death is, it leaves a hole in the heart of the one who's left behind. I love you, Dad. I miss you.