Dancing into the Light: A Spiritual Journey of Healing

By Arlyn Hope Halpern

Dancing into the Light is a heartwarming memoir that captures one woman’s transformative journey of self-discovery by making peace with a family at once extremely dysfunctional, yet oddly endearing. As a child, her troubling interaction with her depressed mother coexisted with the affection she held for her happy-go

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arlyn Hope Halpern
• Release date: Feb 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999286531

Arlyn Hope Halpern

Arlyn Hope Halpern is a psychotherapist in private practice. She holds a Master's in Dance and previously was a dance instructor at Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado. She began the study of Buddhism under the tutelage of Chogyam Trungpa, Rinpoche in the early 1970s. She resides outside of Boston with her husband.

Book preview

1

Mother in the Mirror

WHEN I OPENED MY BEDROOM door each morning, the first thing I saw was my mother, sitting still as a statue, staring at herself in the mirror. Her petite frame was poised on a wrought-iron chair, and she sat ramrod straight in front of a white laminated vanity table that overflowed with glittering tubes of lipstick, mascara wands, eyeliner and eye shadow paraphernalia, pressed powder, and vials of unnamed substances.

Smoke floated upward from a lit cigarette on her left, and a cup of coffee steamed on her right as she gazed at her reflection in the brightly lit mirror. Dyed auburn hair, always perfectly coiffed in the bouffant style of the day, framed a finely structured face with high cheekbones, almond-shaped hazel eyes, full lips, and a delicate nose with a bump on it that bothered her.

On the days that I didn’t go to school, if I wanted to interact with her, I entered the room, sat on the freshly made bed and talked to her reflection in the mirror. If I had a quick question, I stood in the doorway facing her profile. Often I flitted in and out of the room, spying on her out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I stopped and watched her peering at herself in the mirror. What could she possibly find so interesting about her face? I had heard my father telling her she was pretty, but to me her face lacked luster and her eyes were dim, as if a light had been switched off within them. Her skin was sallow, her body flaccid, and she wore an expression of deep sorrow that no amount of makeup could erase.

Since my bedroom was located catty-corner to my parents’ room, I couldn’t escape seeing her day after day, sitting still as a wax museum figure in front of her faithful mirror. So mesmerized was she by her reflection that she wouldn’t even turn her head to acknowledge my entrance into her room.

One day, weary of competing for my mother’s attention with a mirror, I blurted, Why can’t you be like other mothers? Other mothers cook and sew and play with their children.

Mom, nonplussed, took a deep drag on her ever-present Pall Mall cigarette and replied flatly, Well, I’m not able to do those things.

Why? Give me one good reason why!

Because when I was four years old my mother died suddenly, so I never learned how to be a mother.

This sounded like a lame excuse. So, why don’t you learn now?

She sipped her lukewarm coffee and lit another cigarette, creating a smokescreen between us. Turning back to the mirror, she painstakingly applied false eyelashes and creamy coral lipstick. Losing my mother at such a young age was so painful. I’ve never gotten over it.

I could not fathom what her childhood had to do with how she was behaving now. Mo-om! I exclaimed. You can try to be happy if you want! When I grow up I don’t want to be like you! I would stomp away exasperated and perplexed as to how this woman had ended up as my mother. I didn’t ask for much. All I wanted was what my friends had: frumpy, housecoat-wearing mothers who liked to bake cookies, hug their children, and iron their husbands’ shirts.

She often relayed memories of her unpleasant childhood while I sat on her bed watching her reconstruct her face. When I was four, she would begin, my mother, Hannah, held me in her arms and explained she was going to the hospital to have a new baby brother or sister for me. We had never been separated before, so I clung to her as she tried to leave. She’d turn to make sure I was listening. You see, I was a shy and sensitive child. My mother understood this and always loved and accepted me as I was. I cried and begged her not to go, but she held me close and promised she would be home soon. Mom would let out a heavy sigh. My mother delivered a healthy baby girl, my sister Carole, but she died several days later. I never saw her again.

Why did she die?

In those days new mothers were put on bedrest after delivery. When the doctors finally allowed my mother to get out of bed, she collapsed on the floor and there was nothing the medical team could do to revive her. The doctors believed she had developed a blood clot while on bedrest, and when she stood up, it went to her heart.

I’m sorry, Mom. I felt sad for her every time she repeated this devastating tale. At the same time, I was becoming impatient with her unrelenting grief. I desperately needed a mother myself, not a sniveling child. These events happened so many years ago that I could not grasp why she was so preoccupied with them.

Sometimes as she recounted the story, she would rise from the vanity table, walk over to her dresser and extract a small multi­colored beaded handbag from a drawer. This purse belonged to my mother, she would explain, clutching it to her chest. It’s the only item I have of hers. I always miss her, but some days I find comfort in holding the bag to my heart and feeling her love coming through it.

Other times, she would pull out an old black-and-white photo of her sister and herself as children. Even at a young age, Mother looked forlorn—straight lines, narrow, bony limbs, and a long, drawn-out face with a downward-turned mouth and vacant eyes, framed by fine, limp hair. In sharp contrast, her chubby, cherubic little sister greeted the camera with a sweet smile and a head full of bouncy, dark curls.

Mom frequently received handwritten letters from her father, Louis, who lived outside of Cleveland. Dollar bills would rain down as she unfolded these letters. She described her father as loving, but passive. He had run an overcoat factory with one of his brothers, but at home had been at a loss about how to parent his two motherless daughters. Shortly after his wife’s unexpected death, he met and married a domineering woman named Anne and proceeded to call her Mother for the rest of his life.

Every summer we piled into the car and drove through the endless flatlands of northern Indiana until we reached the rural town of Galion, Ohio. I have vivid memories of exploring the many rooms and hidden passageways in my grandparents’ sprawling house. Grandma Anne tried to be pleasant, but cleanliness was her highest priority. Once, I sat on her bed, and when I looked up her eyes were bulging in their sockets, her face red with fury. Arlyn, get off my bed right now! she exclaimed. You’re wrinkling my bedcovers! I learned that it was risky to sit anywhere or touch anything in her showcase home.

The distinguishing characteristic of Grandpa Lou was his baldness. He was of average height and build, fair-skinned, with a round face and rheumy blue eyes set behind wire-rimmed glasses. He often smiled and chuckled to himself, but barely spoke a word directly to my sister or me. One time before we left to drive home, he handed me a bulb of garlic and announced with pride that he had grown it in his garden. I looked down at the bumpy, white object with dirt still clinging to its roots and wondered what he expected me, an eight-year-old girl, to do with it. He stood there beaming, as if he had given me a treasure. I pecked him on the cheek and thanked him for the odd gift.

Once in the car, I clutched the garlic in my palm, then broke it into pieces and sniffed the pungent aroma. It was a tantalizing smell, unlike anything I had experienced. I was drawn to its earthiness; and, by the time we returned home, I decided that one day I wanted to grow my own vegetables. In his bumbling, eccentric way, Grandpa had exposed me to the pleasures of homegrown produce.

As I grew older, Mother began describing harrowing stories of growing up with her wicked stepmother, my Grandma Anne. She recounted how Anne threatened to send her to an orphanage every time she misbehaved. She explained how hard it was to first lose her warmhearted mother and soon afterward be mistreated by an uncaring stepmother. Anne never had children of her own. Mother struggled to understand why she was so ill-tempered toward her and her sister. My mother’s dying was devastating enough, but the treatment I received from Anne added to my sadness. When I grew up and left home, I changed my name from Lila to Diane, because I didn’t want to be reminded of my miserable childhood.

My grandfather, apparently afraid to speak up in his children’s defense, watched helplessly as they were emotionally abused. He took them aside in stolen moments for hugs and whispered words of fatherly love. While this may have sustained them, it wasn’t enough to protect them from lifelong struggles with the inner demon of self-loathing. Hearing of such cruelty shook me.

Mother experienced an unfathomable abandonment as a child that left her frozen with unexpressed grief. Although well-meaning relatives reached out to her with love and support, none of them were willing or able to help her talk about her dreadful loss. The only avenue open to such a shy and fragile girl was to shut down her emotions and retreat into herself. As she grew, the wall around her became thicker and more impenetrable. By the time she reached adulthood, she was convinced that she was incapable of experiencing happiness or joy, loving or being loved, or being a mother.

Mom told me that when she met and married my father, she declared her desire never to bear children. My father pretended that this was acceptable while hoping he could convince her to change her mind. When this did not occur, he took matters into his own hands and conveniently forgot to use a condom. This is how a woman who knew she was not equipped to be a mother ended up having me.

Mother relayed the story of my conception as lightly as she might discuss buying a new dress at Saks. I couldn’t understand why I didn’t get my period. I went to the doctor, complaining that I might have a tumor. She smiled as if the memory amused her. The doctor did a few tests and informed me that I was pregnant. I was shocked! Then I realized that your father had tricked me.

A silent fury rose in my heart when mother blithely conveyed such stories. Who did she think she was talking to? I was the innocent baby she did not want. I would walk away with tears stinging my eyes. Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this mother? I was bombarded with more questions than answers. I had to become introspective at an early age to make sense of such confusing information. I turned to God and spirituality for answers. I became fearful of the unknown.

Desperately wanting a sibling, I frequently asked for one. When I was five, I sat chatting with Mom while she soaked in her bubble bath. Noticing me gaping at her expanding belly, she informed me that she was pregnant. She went on to explain, in excruciating detail, how babies were made. My eyes opened in amazement as I strained to picture a penis going into a vagina, sperm meeting eggs, but I was five and it was beyond me. Afterward, I shot out the door and ran down the block, alerting neighbors to the miraculous event that had taken place in our house. Mom told me later that the neighbors had smiled as they told her of my innocence and confusion in attempting to inform them how babies were made, as if they, too, were hearing it for the first time.

I’m having this baby for you, so you’ll have someone to be close to as you grow up. My sister Carole has always been my best friend, and I want you to have that with a brother or sister, Mom explained. I had already witnessed the bond between my mother and her sister. My dad had a younger brother, Donny, and I sensed that they also had a special connection. Secretly, I wished this baby would be a girl.

When my sister, Joan Cary, came into the world, I was thrilled. I finally had a live baby doll and playmate to relieve the loneliness of being an only child. Those fantasies were quickly dashed. Every time I came near the squirming baby, she’d open her puckered lips and let out a bloodcurdling scream. As she grew, when I picked her up or hugged her, she pushed me away with fierce determination while emitting her cries.

Although disappointed that Joanie wouldn’t allow me to shower her with sisterly love, I was still happy to have another child around the house. With a voice like a young Tallulah Bankhead, she often made Dad and me laugh. She couldn’t pronounce our last name, Matusoff, so she referred to herself as Joanie Madasauce. Dad liked to tease her. Is that like applesauce or fudge sauce? Because she was five years younger than I, I found it hard to figure out how to relate to her. Sometimes teasing her was entertaining; other times we played, especially when we were the only children at family gatherings. Mostly we were each, in our own way, trying to navigate the maelstrom of our challenging childhoods as best we could.

It was the 1950s, and when I was two, my parents moved our family out of Chicago to the planned community of Park Forest, Illinois, about thirty miles south. We first lived in the rentals: red-brick attached townhouses built in circular clusters. By the time I was six, we had moved into a new ranch house. The three-bedroom, two-bath house seemed flimsy, like the dollhouse that stood in a corner of my bedroom. The ceilings were low and the rooms boxy and cramped, although there was a spacious living/dining area and a family room added onto the back. I never liked the house, maybe because it looked like every other house on the block or, more possibly, because it lacked the cozy ambiance of the home I yearned for.

What I did grow to appreciate was its location—within walking distance of the elementary, middle, and high schools, the shopping center, library, and even the aqua center. I delighted in the fact that it abutted a giant field of tall grasses and wildflowers, with a creek running through it, which felt like a private play land. I would gallop through the fields pretending I was Annie Oakley, building secret hideaways in the brush, constructing mud pies, collecting gleaming multicolored rocks, and wading in the cool, clear water of the creek. It was a peaceful retreat where my imagination could roam free.

Other days, when I didn’t have a friend to play with, I followed Mother around the house, chatting with her as she sauntered from room to room. She had a sparse decorating style—neutral colors, no knickknacks, and few pictures on the walls. Her favorite decoration, and the focal point of our living room, was a large burnt orange laughing Buddha sitting atop a wooden sideboard. Looking back, I’m not sure what she was doing as she wandered. We had a housekeeper five days a week who did all the heavy cleaning and most of the cooking. Sometimes, Mom would bend to pick up an odd plaything left out in our spotless living room. Other times, I trotted behind her as she made her way to the bookcase in the family room to select another book to read.

One day, standing at the built-in bookcase, she pulled out a hardback book with a faded red cover and held it up for me. "This is Jane Eyre, a great novel and my all-time favorite book, she announced with pride. It’s the story of a girl who loses her mother as a child and faces many challenges in her life. I read it when I was a little girl and identified with her. It gave me hope and comfort during my lonely childhood. She handed it to me, adding, I’d like you to read it when you’re older."

I gazed up at Mom, then down at the book. Rubbing my hands across its cover, I felt the graininess of the linen and silkiness of the embossed title. Jane Eyre was inscribed across the cover in what looked like handwriting. I opened the book and peered inside. So many tiny words printed on each of the yellowed pages. I couldn’t imagine a time when I would be able to comprehend those words. I nodded and solemnly promised to read it someday. I was moved by her invitation to share this special book with me.

Every evening around five o’clock, Mom went to the liquor cabinet to pour a cocktail. I barely noticed her drinking, because it did not transform her into a happier person. Occasionally after dinner, I witnessed Dad arguing with her as she stood mixing another drink. I believe he sometimes resorted to hiding her liquor. As I grew older, I became aware that Mother had added a variety of mood-altering prescription medications to her arsenal—Valium to calm her nerves, phenobarbital to sleep, and amphetamines to stay awake during the day. Those did not appear to help her mood either. From my vantage point she was always the same—depressed and self-involved, residing in a private world of pain and unending despair.

When I didn’t have school, I sometimes accompanied Mom to Chicago for an appointment with her psychoanalyst, whom she met with twice a week. We would ride the train and walk hand in hand to his office on Michigan Avenue. The waiting room was dark, quiet, and foreboding. Mother would deposit me on a tall, upholstered chair where I would sit swinging my legs, while she disappeared into a cavernous office with the pipe-smoking man. Eventually, the door would open and she would stumble out with tears in her eyes and a tissue in her hand.

Here she goes again, what a crybaby, I’d think to myself.

Mother rewarded me for my patience by taking me out to lunch at a restaurant down the street. I always ordered Welsh rarebit, a special dish she had introduced me to. We chatted as I sopped the airy white bread in the luscious cheese sauce.

Mother often commented that she had no interest in food, and ate only to stay alive. At five feet tall and ninety-eight pounds throughout her adult life, nourishing herself and others was an obligation she performed begrudgingly. Luckily for our family, before leaving for the day, the housekeeper often prepared a delicious dinner. Otherwise, we were subjected to the few items Mom knew how to make: meatloaf, tuna noodle casserole, or hot dogs and beans. I don’t recall seeing fresh vegetables on the table except for the ubiquitous corn on the cob that grew in the surrounding cornfields. The canned vegetables were watered down and tasteless. Staple starches were Wonder Bread and baked potatoes. Mother rarely served dessert, although she occasionally prepared brownies from a box or cooked homemade fudge when she had a hankering for something sweet. Sometimes, she sent Dad out to buy her a Mr. Goodbar.

Dinner at the kitchen table was a wild and untamed scene, like a family of monkeys foraging in the jungle. There were no rules or table manners. If one of us wanted the butter, we didn’t politely ask, Please pass the butter. Instead, we reached across the table and grabbed it. My little sister was trying to master the art of getting food into her mouth, but much of it landed on the table, the floor, her clothes, or was smeared across her face. Mother quietly picked at her dinner. I was a finicky eater, taking a few obligatory bites of my meal and leaving the rest on my plate. Dad inhaled his food, then leaned over and ate every morsel of mine. I grew up thinking it was common practice to eat the food from other people’s plates without asking.

One day, when I was having dinner with my best friend, Bonnie, and her family, her mother looked up and cried with alarm, Arlyn, what are you doing? I shrank into my seat and readied myself for a reprimand. Didn’t your parents teach you how to hold your silverware? I looked down at the white-knuckled grasp on my fork and knife. Mrs. Bernstein rose from her chair and stood over me with a look of determination and said, Well, I’m going to teach you now. She bent over and pulled the knife and fork from my fists, turning my hands over and placing the utensils in their proper position. The family stopped eating to watch the lesson unfold. Bonnie’s father had a look of pity in his eyes. Part of me was grateful that someone was willing to make the effort to teach me how to hold a fork and knife. The other part was furious at my parents for allowing me to grow up without proper table manners.

That marked the beginning of many lessons on etiquette and decorum that were thrust on me by others. Although both of my parents were raised in households with rules and boundaries, it did not occur to either of them to convey this information to their children. Every time I left the confines of my chaotic household, I never knew what lecture or life lesson was waiting for me on the outside. Another friend’s mother scolded me on a regular basis for my lack of good manners. Deep down, I knew that she was doing this because she cared about me, but it was humiliating to be chastised so frequently by someone else’s mother.

Although Mother seemed incapable of teaching me manners or providing guidelines for living in the world, she had an empathetic side. She was a study in contradiction. One minute, she would be lost in her private world, and the next, she might proffer wise guidance. Often, she exhibited compassion for others, insight into the human condition, and open-minded thinking. She could be encouraging and supportive. She told me I was pretty and smart, and a talented dancer. She said I could do and be anything I wanted when I grew up.

She never criticized or made fun of my childish musings. Once, I announced, I’m going to have fourteen children when I grow up.

With a knowing nod, she replied, You might change your mind when you’re older, but if that makes you happy, it’s important to follow your heart.

Another time, I came into her room and declared, When I grow up, I’m going to marry a doctor.

Her response was, You don’t have to marry a doctor. You can become a doctor.

Incredulous, I replied, Wow, Mom, I didn’t know girls could be doctors!

More perplexing was when Mom blithely announced, Everyone is neurotic.

No they aren’t, I began. Just because you’re neurotic doesn’t mean everyone else is. What does neurotic mean, anyway?

She explained that all people have problems—no one can escape being challenged in one way or another. Since I was so young, this seemed to me just another one of her quirky pronouncements. It made me bristle with indignation. Yet, years later, when I learned that the Buddha’s first teaching was that all people suffer, I realized Mom had imparted some true wisdom along the way.

Usually delicate and demure, Mom abandoned those characteristics when she had to perform tasks she didn’t like. For instance, when washing my hair, she would thrust my head into the sink and dig her manicured nails into my scalp. Ow, Mom, you’re hurting me! Please be gentle, I’d beg. Or if reading me a bedtime story, usually Emily in Paris, she would rush through it begrudgingly or so quickly that I barely understood a word. I strained to glimpse the pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine River flying by as she hastily turned the pages.

Sometimes, she was so absorbed in her ruminations that she ignored my pleas for help, like the time I developed a blister on top of my right big toe. Every morning for the next few days, I entered her room as she was assessing herself in the mirror and tried to show her how the blister was swelling, becoming more inflamed, and filling with pus that jiggled as I walked. She barely looked at it. One morning the blister had swelled so much that I couldn’t squeeze my foot into my sneaker. Mom, I called out from my bedroom, can I cut a hole in my sneakers? That blister is getting in the way.

Okay, she replied.

I grabbed a pair of scissors and labored to cut through the heavy canvas material. Task completed, I went outside to play with a gigantic, angry blister sticking out of my shoe.

Mother was standing at the door when I came in for lunch. She looked down at my foot and noticed a line of red creeping up my leg. Arlyn, your toe, that blister, it’s enormous! I’d better take you to the doctor right away!

Mom, I’ve been telling you about it for days!

She rushed me to the doctor, who told her the infection had started to spread and would have been fatal if it had reached my heart. I stared at my mother with rebuke as the doctor wrote a prescription.

Then there were the nights when she softly rubbed my keppie (Yiddish for head) while we watched Ed Sullivan or some other variety show. As we gazed at the dance routines, she would tell me how much she loved my dancing. She signed me up and chauffeured me to dance, voice, drama, and piano lessons. Arlyn, you were born with natural musical talent, and I want to give you every opportunity to develop your inborn skills. I always loved to act and wish someone had encouraged me to pursue my interests.

Dance buoyed me. I do not remember a time when I didn’t dance. Movement flowed through me effortlessly. It felt natural to glide, leap, and twirl through space. When I heard music, my body swayed and stepped to the rhythms. I was transported to a place where I was carefree. Dance lifted me above the clouds, enabled me to express my emotions and bestowed moments of pure joy. When troubled by confusing feelings, I soared through space, free and unfettered.

I was four when Mom signed me up for ballet lessons. From the beginning, I made an effort to perfect every step. When the teacher corrected me, as she frequently did, tears welled up in my eyes. I was often crying when Mom picked me up after class. At home, I would run into the house, determined to repeat and polish each poorly executed step until I got it right.

My first friend was Bonnie, whom I waddled around with as a toddler because our parents were friends. As we grew older, we discovered that she had perfect pitch and I had perfect rhythm, so we attempted to sing and dance together. I say attempted because often when I sang with her, a pained expression would cross her face as she corrected my flat notes. This interrupted the flow of our little theatrical performances and caused me to take stock of my singing ability.

When I complained to Mom, she sagely replied, Bonnie was born with the gift of a sweet singing voice, and you were given the ability to dance with beauty and grace. Everybody has unique and special gifts and no one can have them all.

Mother’s gifts were acting and creative dramatics. She was a member of the local theater troupe and acted in many of their productions. Several times a week, she volunteered to teach creative dramatics to developmentally disabled individuals, in mental hospitals, and in a theater located in a poor black neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. Occasionally, she let me accompany her to these classes.

I watched as my diminutive mother shared her passion for theater with these diverse groups. I was struck by her acceptance of and kindness toward people who were so often stigmatized and judged by the world. She seemed to regard everyone as a kindred spirit. Her openness toward people, coupled with her non-judgmental attitude, was a side of her I admired and wanted to emulate. At the same time, I wondered how she could be so caring to others while withholding so much from her own family.

Once, when I was eleven, she invited me to come with her to teach creative movement to a group of developmentally disabled teens. I readily agreed, but when I walked to the front of the room and felt the eyes of so many people focused on me, I froze, not sure what I was supposed to do. I decided to use prompts from nature, we became trees blowing in the wind and swooped around the room as birds in flight. As we were gliding past each other, a boy grabbed my arm, pulled me toward him, and tried to kiss me. I stood motionless, glancing at Mom for help. Marching over, she commanded, Simon, you must let go of Arlyn now! She tried to pry his hands loose several times and with difficulty finally succeeded. I never knew when or if my passive mother would come to my aid, but when she did, my relief was palpable.

She told me she wished she had pursued a career in acting and exhibited subdued pleasure when she participated in any activity that involved the theater. Her shining moment came when she was given a starring role in a local production of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire. She played the part of the neurotic femme fatale, Blanche Dubois. This role captured her imagination, and she dove into it with dedication and aplomb.

On opening night, in the audience with my father and sister, I watched the vain and sensitive Blanche Dubois and was struck by the uncanny similarity to my mother’s personality. After the show, Mom sparkled in a way that was rare.

Mother had a best friend, Carlyn, who frequently dropped by to chat. Upon entering our house, she would seek me out first thing, open her arms, and draw me into her softness. I melted into her embrace and buried my head in her welcoming bosom, savoring the warmth and comfort I so longed for from my own mother. Mother rarely hugged me. Only in her sleep would she snuggle. When Dad was on business trips, I often crawled into her bed in the middle of the night, and she would reach her arms out in a welcoming hug. I cherished her nighttime affection.

As I awkwardly headed toward puberty, I had mixed feelings about this perplexing woman whose life’s lottery had made my mother. By then I was well aware of the inner struggles she had endured from childhood. While I had compassion for her plight, I was simultaneously furious that she didn’t try harder to overcome the stranglehold of her past. One day when I was eleven, I opened my bedroom door to find her standing there with an agonized expression on her face. She reached out and enclosed me in a feeble hug. Oh Arlyn, I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to give you the love and affection you deserve, she confessed. I squirmed out of her grasp and gazed into her melancholy eyes.

I can’t help you, Mom. It’s too late for apologies. I pushed past her and made my way down the hall. I wished that years of neglect could be erased with one earnest apology, but it wasn’t possible. I had long ago turned to my affectionate father for hugs, kisses, and companionship. Mom often spoke to me as if I were a grown-up and burdened me with her inner struggles, while Dad was playful and fun loving—most of the time.

2

Dynamo

AT DINNERTIME I STARED OUT the front window waiting for Dad to come home from work. He traveled a lot, so on the nights he came home, I was brimming with excitement. The moment I spied him walking down the front path, I’d run out the door and fly into his arms. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!

He would set down his briefcase and carry me inside where he greeted Mom with a kiss. Then he got down on the floor and gently wrestled with me, tickling and hoisting me in the air like an airplane. I’d hold my body stiffly and fling my arms out to the side as he maneuvered me into various positions above him. Gazing down, I’d smile into his small, sparkling, chocolate-brown eyes. He had a round face that was somehow always tanned, even during the long Midwestern winters. His