Memoir

/ˈmemˌwär/ noun. a record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation. Usually memoirs. an account of one's personal life and experiences; autobiography. the published record of the proceedings of a group or organization, as of a learned society.

---

It’s already been a month since Memoir Monday has begun!

For all of those who’ve regularly participated in the initiative these first four weeks, you’re making great progress! Writing your memoir is an amazing accomplishment that few people will undertake. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed reading the entries from all across the globe. Take a moment this week to look back and celebrate what we’ve achieved together so far.

For those who missed the inaugural post explaining what the Memoir Monday initiative is all about you can find it here.

---

This week’s Memoir Monday question:

What is one of your favorite memories of your father?

---

My answer:

---

It’s difficult to just pick one favorite memory of my dad. My father and I, in some ways, were more like friends than just father and son. I think a little backstory is necessary to really understand why.

My dad's name was Verlo Victor Walton, he was born on November 29th, 1939 in Lancaster, Ohio. He didn’t have much of a childhood. He was the youngest child of the family and was closest with his, slightly older sister, Barb. They joked and argued like brothers but were highly protective of each other and shared a close bond.

Aunt Barbara and my Dad as children in the early 1940's

---

The family was extremely poor and their father died when he was three years old. Their mom, Ruth, couldn’t afford to raise them and their other siblings alone so they were raised in a succession of foster homes off-and-on for most of their childhood. She would take them back home when she was able to save enough money to support them by taking in other people’s laundry, waiting tables in a diner, and singing in bars (she wrote her own songs) but it was never for long. This was the 1940’s so the world was an especially tough place for an uneducated woman to raise a family by herself.

My dad never blamed his mother for the hardships he endured in the foster homes. There was a lot of psychological and physical abuse that happened in foster homes back then. He had stories that were simply horrifying. I think it’s a true miracle that my dad retained a kind heart through it all. Friends and family would tell you that he would give someone he liked or cared for the shirt off his back, he had an extremely kind heart and that’s just the kind of person he was.

My Dad and his Mom.

---

Although he struggled with depression for most of his years, thankfully, my father didn't let the trauma of his childhood ruin his adult life. In spite of his childhood, my dad absolutely loved being a dad to my brother and I. I think it was the first experience he ever had with what could be considered a normal family life. He would get down in the dirt, play on playgrounds with us, be the first to sled down snow hills, go on bike rides with us, hike in the woods, etc.

On one occasion I bought a kite and walked up to a field on the grounds of Fairmoor Elementary school. It was a perfect day to fly a kite. We quickly managed to get it up into the air and reached the end of our string. He had the idea of going to the store and getting more string. I stayed there, flying the kite and he came back with a Kmart bag full of spools of kite string. We tied the new spool to the end of the old one and got the kite up so high that you couldn't see it the naked eye. After a while we realized it would take too long to reel in so we just let it go. That kite probably ended up somewhere in Canada.

Me, my dad, and my brother, Curt.

---

I can see now he liked it so much because he was experiencing his first childhood through us. He often had more fun than we did.

Now, for a few of my most favorite memories. I had a very large paper route during my freshman year of high school. It was on Weyant Avenue between Main Street and Plymouth Avenue in Columbus, Ohio. I think I had a total of almost three-hundred customers. Sunday papers were especially challenging to deliver because they were massive and heavy. My dad, although he worked all week, would get up at 3:30am in the morning to help me prepare and deliver the morning papers.

I remember how hushed the world was at that hour, how fresh the air smelled in those wee hours of the morning. I would go out searching for the large bundles of newspapers under the glow of the streetlights on the street corner. To this day I believe this is one reason I love the peacefulness of the early morning. Thinking back, I’m so grateful that he was willing to sacrifice sleeping in on a Sunday because it would have taken me probably ten trips on foot or on my bike without his help. His job wasn't easy and I'm sure he was tired.

We rolled the papers then would load them up the hatchback of my parent’s old 1976 AMC Pacer. Sometimes Dad would let me drive along the route, I think I was thirteen at the time. We’d be done with the route by five or five-thirty and then we’d come back home and make breakfast. Even though it was usually before sunrise neither of us could go back to sleep so sometimes would go on a walk or a bike ride afterwards if the weather was nice.

I was thrilled to be able to drive at that age but what was even better was spending time with my dad. I was of the age where he stopped treating me like a child and more like a man. We had many good conversations during that time together. He gave me advice but never forced his own opinions on me. Dad always gave me the space and freedom to make my own decisions (and mistakes) and pursue the things that interested me. In the end it all worked out but it must've taken a lot of self-restraint and faith on his part. He was a welder and came from a long line of tradesmen. My wanting to write for a living must've seemed like such a foreign concept to him but he always supported my decision and believed in me.

What I would give to spend a few hours with him now! He was a true one of a kind and could have me laughing in seconds. I’ve never met another person quite like him. He had such strength of character and a childlike spirit, even to the end.

Dad and I.

---

This is the last picture I have of my dad on my phone's camera roll.

It was during a visit I took for his 80th birthday in November of 2019. This is how I remember him, always tinkering at a workbench. Alzheimer's had started to get pretty severe by this point but he still was having mostly lucid moments. My parents dropped me off at the airport at the end of that trip and that's the last time I hugged him.

He’s already been gone for four years now but, God, it seems like much longer. Part of my dad's spirit still lives in my brother and I. My brother inherited more of his looks, I see so much of our father in him. Every so often I’ll catch myself saying or doing something and it feels like I’m subconsciously channeling my pops and he's paying me a visit. I can’t help but laugh when it happens. I'm grateful both my brother and I inherited his strength and resourcefulness. That particular legacy has been more helpful in life than any amount of money. I’m so thankful for these memories he left us with and that Verlo Victor Walton was my dad.

---

Rules for Memoir Monday Participation

1. Please reblog this first post and share on other social platforms so we cast the widest net possible for this initiative;
2. Pictures paint a thousand words. Include pictures in your posts if you have them;
3. Answer each Memoir Monday prompt question in your own post. The prompt question will be published each Monday but you'll have the entire week to answer and publish your own post;
4. Have fun with it, don't worry about getting behind, or jumping into the project at any point after we've begun; and
5. Lastly, be sure to include the tag #memoirmonday.

It's that simple.

At the end of the next twelve months we'll have created something immensely valuable together. It's so important to know our "whys" in life and there's no better way to do that than this.

Someday all that will be left of our existence are memories of us, our deeds, and words. It's up to you to leave as rich of a heritage as possible for future generations to learn from. So, go ahead, tell your stories. I can't wait to read them.

Be well and make the most of this day. I want to sincerely thank all of the participants thus far. I've really enjoyed reading your posts!

~Eric Vance Walton~

(All photos are original.)

---

Growing weary of the ads and divisiveness on mainstream social media? If so, why not try Hive? Click on this link to sign-up and join our growing global community.

Let’s Keep In Touch

www.ericvancewalton.net