My parents were very young and very much in love when my father died. Mama was nineteen when she married and Daddy was twenty one. There was nothing unusual about such a young bride and groom back in the nineteen forties just after the end of World War II. They were part of the generation that experienced the Great Depression as children and a world war as teens. They grew up fast back then, performing adult jobs at much younger ages than teens today. 

My father grew up moving from place to place wherever there was construction work for his father. He would enjoy the relocations and never lost the wanderlust that made him antsy if he stayed in one place for too long. He was a good student from the time he was a young boy and made his parents proud with his academic awards and knowledge of every kind of subject from sports to literature, engineering to architecture, history to mathematics. Reading, fishing, and football were his pastimes and he loved nothing more than his mother, his wife, his children, long time friends and his Texas A&M Aggies.  

Mama was the youngest child of eight children born to her immigrant parents who arrived from Austria Hungary just before the outbreak of World War I. She was beautiful, bright and had a smile that lit up rooms. To say she had charisma is an understatement. She grew up in a tiny house not far from downtown Houston and had only once ventured far from home before she met my father. She was the apple of her mother’s eye and my father’s as well. He claimed that he fell for her the first time she flirted with him when they worked together at the same company. She boasted that she set her cap for him because he was intrigued by the quiet young man who was studying to be an engineer. 

They were a set of complementary bookends, perfect in the ways that they brought out the best in each other. While my father was known for his genius and intellect, Mama was every bit his equal and he treasured her wit and her willingness to understand his dreams. They were best buddies who were very much in love. 

My mother began driving when she was nine years old. She was not afraid of the devil himself and worked as a telephone operator on a switchboard and as a secretary for judges and college professors before she was even twenty one years old. Once I came along she settled into the traditional role of a wife and mother, never once seeming to miss having a career. I always thought that my father’s joy of talking about the newest thing he had read or learned kept her mind active even as she devoted herself to the duties of a housewife. 

Together my parents created a kind of fairytale life for me and my brothers. At least that was how it seemed until the last year of my father’s life when even I as child felt tension building in the quiet unspoken moments. We embarked on a journey of promise to California that would end in a kind of hell. It was a tough year for everyone, including my baby brother who reacted with long crying bouts that seemed to be inconsolable. What had seemed like a dream opportunity for my parents turned out to be less than happy for any of us. We were soon heading back to Texas in a kind of personal odyssey that seemed so uncertain. Then came a ray of hope again and my parents seemed to heel quickly from the anxieties that had marked the circular journey. 

We were back in Houston and my father had a job that was providing him with contentment once again. Mama was singing and dancing and the two of them were holding hands wherever they went. The world seemed so right as we looked for a home to purchase and had seemingly settled on one that was lovely. My young parents of thirty and thirty three were going to celebrate their eleventh anniversary and Mama’s birthday with a kind of relief that everything was looking rosier than it had in months. 

My mother spent the day before my father died preparing to launch the summer vacation with a family gathering at the beach. She baked cakes and prepared her famous baked beans. She made her special recipe barbecue sauce for Daddy to use when he grilled the burgers the following day. Of course her delicious potato salad was already chilling in the refrigerator along with the soft drinks that would fill our ice chest the following morning. The joy that had always marked our family was in full bloom as we anticipated a future that seemed so bright. 

Of course, not of that was to be. My father was in a car accident and did not make it home. The unreality of it still haunts me today. The gift that he had purchased for my mother for their anniversary was waiting on the top of a table. The card that he had slipped into the mailbox to demonstrate his undying love for her was on its way. They lamps that he was going to give her as a surprise one her birthday only needed one more payment to come home. Life was so normal and then it was not. 

My mother never fell out of love with my father, nor did I. He was one of a kind, and we never found a replacement for him. He would dwell in our minds when we listened to his music, pored over his books, gazed at the engineering projects he had completed. We kept watching Texas Aggie football and loyally cheering for the team. We recounted his jokes and the things that he had taught us. We gazed at the photo that showed the joy that existed between him and my mother. She kept his spirit alive and well and reminded me and my brothers of how much he loved us all. I was just old enough to know that she spoke the truth.

My parents were both quite incredible. My father will forever be a young man. My mother grew into her old age. Somehow though I think of them together and I remember their laughter and their joy in sharing music and travel and family. I am content in knowing how wonderful they both were and how loved they made me feel.