Breathing Lessons

As I was standing on the deck tonight, enjoying the waning moon and watching my breath, I thought of my father. The chilly air reminded me of our winter walks, coming back from the garages in the late evening just before the 11 o’clock news and Johnny Carson.

The Staff House in the early years. Garages were to the left.

We lived on the grounds of the Gowanda State Hospital, and the way the grounds were laid out, our house was some distance from the garages. The line of them, all connected in one long, brick building, was just past the Staff House and near the Director’s house, maybe a quarter mile from our own place. If we were expecting a big snow, Dad and I would drive the cars (he’d drive the Caddy and I’d drive the Impala), and park them for the night in the garages. Dad parked in garage number 7, the last single garage. The rest were in sections of 3, maybe 4 – like a ward -- so I had to be careful parking the Impala and opening the door as there was occasionally a car next to it. I have no idea who the other spots were allocated to, or why Dad didn’t get a higher number. The Director had number 1, and it seemed to be haphazard from there.

It was fun getting to park the cars and walk home together. We’d shut the garage doors (never had to lock them) and meet for the walk home. I especially remember the nights when the snow would squeak under our boots. Those nights were usually crystal clear and dreadfully cold, and the hair in my nose would freeze long before we got home. 

The balconies where patients took in fresh air year-round. Now neglected and in disrepair.

Besides the bitter cold, the squeaking snow, and the dicey patches where people had driven over the same spot until it turned to ice, were the breathing exercises. Dad had had TB when he was in the Army decades before, and had been hospitalized for over a year at JN Adam in Perrysburg when it was a TB hospital. As part of his treatment he learned breathing exercises to increase his lungs’ vital capacity. It was also there where he, along with rows of other TB patients, were set out in beds in the winter cold. The area was like a long covered balcony. Of course they were bundled up, complete with fur-lined parka hoods. He’d tell me of often waking in the morning with his blankets covered in snow. That was also where he developed his habit of throwing his bedroom windows wide open on the coldest of nights. 

He taught me the breathing exercises one night as we walked home: in slowly and deeply through the nose, as deep as your lungs would let you, then suck an even deeper breath until your lungs burned; then slowly let the air out through your mouth. We would do these every winter’s night, all the way home. To this day, when the cold air hits my face, I instinctively start sucking in the chill, breathing deeply, drawing the deliciously cold air through my nose and slowly watching it escape through my mouth. I was doing that tonight as I stood out on the deck, thinking of my father and moments like those nights that we shared. I remember enjoying them then, but I think I enjoy them even more now.

Often times I’d load my German Shepherd Sturmie up in the Impala and he’d walk back with us. Sturm loved the snow and would roll and roll and roll, cleaning all the dirt and dust from his coat. I think in his entire lifetime that dog may have had one bath. Between the snow in the winter and swimming in the lake all summer, he was never dirty.

The stars are as clear here tonight in Tennessee as they were on those nights when Dad and I would walk home from the garages. I don’t remember what we talked about. The absolute stillness of the winter landscape buried in snow, the squeaking of our boots, and the sounds of our breathing together were enough. Those memories are as fresh now as if it were yesterday. I miss those times, but replay them often on crisp nights like tonight, when the moon is out and the sky is clear, and every star is as sharp and bright as cut glass.

I close my eyes and I can see him, his tan fleece-lined jacket, his scarf (always a scarf) tucked around his throat, and his green velvet hat with the feathers in the brim. That hat, all the way from Germany. I still have that hat. And the scarf. 

And the memories.

I miss him on nights like this. I miss him.

~~

As I grow older, and as friends share their memories of their parents with me, I become more and more deeply aware of how lucky I was, and how extraordinary my parents were. We didn’t always agree – on some of the big things we would never agree – but I seldom hear stories like this from friends. When I do, they are few and far between. It’s then that I appreciate even more how much my parents loved me. Even as I repeatedly disappointed them, their love never wavered.

Every child should know that kind of love. Every adult should have those simple, joyful memories.