A small town, two cousins and Dad. It doesn't get much better

Dad and Mom at their wedding reception.



"Do you need a map?" he asked before I left for Tampico. I told him no, it shouldn't be that hard to find.

I should have taken the map.

Ever since my cousin Rita suggested I meet with her and her sister Kathy to talk about my dad and mom, I'd been in a state of high anticipation. Would our meeting be awkward? Would I feel "related" to them? Would they like me? Would I remember all the questions I had about a man I never knew?

The answers came: No, yes, I think so and I hope so.

I won't go into the hair-raising trip there because I couldn't recount it if I tried. When I parked across from Dutch's Diner in downtown Tampico, I noticed there were no cars at all nearby. I was 20 minutes late and worried my cousins had left. I walked inside, looked left and there they were.

We got to know each other quickly; after all, Rita and I are Facebook friends and we've written and talked on the phone a bit. The two sisters were more than willing to share anything they knew about Dad and Mom and I listened with every fiber of my being.

As a kid of divorced parents, all I ever heard about was the bad side of my father. Even as a young child I knew that couldn't be all there was; somewhere inside me was the little girl who wanted a daddy that loved her and kept her safe.

Sometime around the age of 11 or so, I would imagine that Dad was here in town, watching me from afar and making sure I was being cared for. But the rumors persisted within the family that painted a much darker picture. I knew that someday I would find out what kind of man my father really was.

Rita and Kathy filled in the family portrait for me, on a Wednesday afternoon over chocolate cream pie, tea and coffee. To Rita, he was a favorite uncle. Dad loved to cook, loved kids, horses, farming, and my goodness did he love making music. He was in a band for 40 years, an accordion player, an instrument Rita took up because of his influence.

I watched as my cousins spoke about Dad, their eyes telling every bit as much as their words. A man loved that much had to have been a good man, one I would have loved to have known.

In December of 1993, about a week before Christmas, Dad had a physical exam and was pronounced in good health. I was told he stayed active, and was a happy, contented man. It was a shock to everyone when he never woke up on Christmas morning. Dad died of a heart attack in his sleep.

I've written before about how I met my father once on our oldest son's second birthday. At the urging of my husband, we made the drive to Amboy and visited for an hour or so and left. I never saw him again.

But a couple of days ago, Dad came back, just for a couple of hours. He spoke to me through Rita and Kathy, through stories of his life and Mom's and their early days on the farm. I listened as they spoke of tire swings and sundresses, lilacs and music and much, much more.

We wrapped things up, and while Rita and Kathy went looking for an antique shop I headed back to Kewanee. I made it almost to Hooppole before the tears came.

See, the thing is, kids are impressionable little folks but they're not stupid. It's not wise to fill their heads full of negative images of whichever spouse is absent from their lives because there is something inside us all that simply craves the love of the ones who gave us life. And just like me, we'll go searching for answers until someone is willing to talk to us and give us, for lack of a better phrase, the rest of the story.

I've got half siblings out there that I would love to get to know. They obviously knew Dad the most and would have some great stories to tell. Someday I'm hoping to meet them too, and if that comes to pass, I'll be sure to take a map.

Thanks, Rita. Thanks, Kathy. Dad would have been very proud of you both.