Knowledge Grows

Today is the tenth anniversary of my father, Frederick Reed Hastings, crossing over into the Great Divide. But before that, I remember being out with him in the desert surrounding El Paso. It was the early 70s and we'd been living in the Southwest for five years and I'd finally grown to love it after mourning the greenery and lakes of Michigan where my Dad had been stationed in the Air Force. When he retired in 1965, he moved us to El Paso, Texas where Mildred Hastings, our grandmother was living after surviving the death of Albert Hastings, our grandfather.

My father loved the sunshine of El Paso. At this moment, I see his broad smile on that Sunday out in the desert. It was after church and he'd put on some silly shorts that very well could have been swimming trunks. He wore a t-shirt and a pair of boots, too. We were doing what you're not supposed to do: poaching cacti for our lawn. Wedgewood Lane was the borderline between suburbia and the desert back then and I'm not sure if it was even illegal at that point, but we did it. We went out after eating Mom's pot roast and vegetables baked in the oven as was done nearly every Sunday. And then we drove to the desert.

He'd found a Century plant as we stood in the middle of the sand dunes, griese bushes, and flattened trails and roads. The sky was wide open, not a cloud, and the eternal season of warmth was upon us. We dug or rather he did, and when the deed was done, his smile reigned beyond the sweat on his face and I saw his joy of accomplishment. Holding onto the tall neck of the plant, he carried it to our vehicle and back home we went.

Years later, on the centennial anniversary of the State National Bank where my father created its first audio visual department now housed in its own building, he asked for a picture to be taken of him in front of that plant before going off to work. He wore a top hat and a suit representing the fashion from those years ago.

And the Century plant was in bloom.

Now that I live in New York when I miss my father as I'm doing today, I go to the New York Public Library on 41st Street in Manhattan and I sit down on a marble bench located right past the first level of steps to the left of the entryway. There I sit and look at the bust of Thomas Hastings, one of the two architects responsible for the design of the library, and a direct relative of mine. I observe him, the man who looks so much like my father. I see the same nose, the gentle eyes, slight wave of hair, same strong chin and neck. But he does not have - or the bust cannot provide - the electric smile of my father. And as the tourists and anyone visiting the library travel past me, I remain there - until like that Century plant - I can bloom to a new level of understanding and carry on.