Originally this issue was to highlight some of the more fun events occurring this year, and I'll post that next week. I hope you'll indulge me this time with a highly personal post.
Sunday morning, my father died from Alzheimer's. To the right is a picture of how I like to remember him.
Alzheimer's is a cruel, horrific disease that robs people of their personality, ability, and talent.
Slowly at first, and then with precision, it escalates, gaining speed in the final months as it tortures those dear and those near. Watching this disease decimate someone you love is excruciating, and I pray you never know how hard it is. My mother bore the brunt of caring for my father, staying at his side, and comforting him until his last day. To this day, I am in awe of her strength.
Robert Thornton Lewis, my father, is the definition of a good man. He never spoke ill of anyone. Those of us who had the privilege to know him will never forget his smile, willingness to help, attention to detail, and love of the outdoors. Most of all, he will be remembered for his art. He was amazing.
I was always "Daddy's girl." He was my rock, the constant that never changed, an honest, humble, and highly talented man.
His quiet countenance terrified the boys, then men, who courted me, to my eternal amusement. Ultimately, he was the only man in the world; the experience proved I could depend upon him. Dad was always there.
Dad didn't do impulsive, except on one specific occasion. He met my mother in Rochester, New York, right after she turned nineteen. At just twenty-four, he proposed three weeks later. My mother's parents were so aghast that they offered her a brand new Mustang not to marry him. She would have none of that, choosing my father over the car. They were married within five months; I came along eleven months later, and my sister two-and-a-half years later. We've been a family ever since.
On the day he died, my parents had been married for almost 57 years. His fortitude and commitment epitomized the qualities of a faithful husband and a doting, steadfast father through good and bad times.
Dad was in the Marine reserves during Vietnam, and he put himself through school and became a Mechanical Engineer.
Throughout my childhood, we rode the silicon wave up the West Coast. My parents moved to San Diego so Dad could take a job with General Dynamics when I was six weeks old. Later, he would work for Burroughs Corporation, Intel, Protocol, and finally, Welsh Allen. You've probably seen his work if you've ever been to a hospital. The Propaq® LT Monitor [pictured is a later model] was widely used during the Gulf War and in hospitals worldwide. That is his design. I even saw it at the Aramco camp hospital (John Hopkins) in Saudi Arabia! They're still in use.
Long-distance biking, including the annual Seattle to Portland 200-mile trek, was another of his passions.
Sometime in his late 30s, he developed a green thumb, carefully landscaping our backyard in Oregon into a mini-masterpiece.
He taught me how to work on my car, a requirement he set forth before I could get a license. Yes, I can change a tire, the oil and flush the cooling system. I even successfully replaced the radiator and sealed a broken head gasket once, thanks to Dad's insistence.
My earliest memory is of him at four years old. He took me to the Grand Canyon, just Daddy and me. We camped in the front seat of a 1969 Fiat 124, "Rosy the red Fiat," his first new car. We awoke to a bear helping itself to our green Colman cooler!
As a family, we camped a lot, first in a tent and then in a tent trailer. We had a family vacation each year, and he introduced my sister and me to nearly every state in the lower forty-eight. Dad loved classical music and museums. Walking through the Getty Museum in Los Angeles, as he pointed out various masterpieces and explained techniques, is one of my most cherished memories and the perfect segue to my father's legacy—his art.
Dad was a gifted artist, preferring charcoal, oil, and watercolors. His landscapes were good, but his portraits were amazing. He received an Artistic License from the International Academy of Watercolor Arts, and I always remember him drawing something.
On a funny note (and my mom will probably kill me for mentioning this), Dad always had a pile of Playboy magazines in his studio that he attempted to hide, which as a curious child, I always seemed to find!
He'd spend hours drawing the human figure from those (yes, they can be used for something besides the usual). He'd focus on hands (tough to draw), faces, and total figures, learning muscle tone, skeletal structure, lighting, and perfecting his craft.
Later he'd move on to drawing children (also challenging). At first, they looked like adults, but eventually, he got it. His retirement, until Alzheimer's robbed him of his talent, was spent doing portraits.
He drew on everything. No paper napkin, coaster, or blotter in a restaurant was safe. Waiting for food, he'd sketch the waitstaff or surroundings, sometimes leaving the drawing with the tip.
The last time I spoke with my father was March 15 this year. He was in a hospital in Delaware. Later in the week, he'd be moved to a beautiful hospice in Maryland, Doey's House.
For the most part, throughout the hospital visits, he had been unresponsive or unable to speak. But on this visit, a little miracle happened. I was talking to him, and he opened his eyes. They were not the lost, grasping eyes I'd seen the previous days, unsure of where he was. He was my dad again, focused and present.
He looked at me, grasping for something to say. I mentioned my cats. Chuckling, he responded with a "meow." Dad's humor was always unique to him.
Chatting for a few more minutes, I told him about my work, and then he again laughed as he watched me struggle to turn on the TV for him.
Outside, the sun was beginning to drop lower in the sky, filling the room with a warm lily-like glow. I reached over the bed, held his hand, kissing him on the forehead. As I turned to leave, I said, "Bye, Daddy. I love you."
He paused for a moment, raised his bandaged hands, and waved, softly whispering, "Bye."
It would be the last time we ever spoke together. He died just before dawn on March 27, 2022.
In memory of Robert Thornton Lewis, the best dad in the world, November 12, 1940 - March 27, 2022!
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Thank you for letting me share a little about my dad. Below I've included some more of his work. Most of these have homes with others around the world.
Below are some screenshots of his website from Wayback. Most of these are hanging in people's homes worldwide, and featured are oil, charcoal, and finally, watercolor.
