when i think back upon my childhood, this is the house i think upon most. 1911 E. 53rd Street in Tulsa, Oklahoma. my parents purchased the house and spent a couple months renovating the house before they told us kids about it. this is the house my youngest sister Abby was born into. this is the house where my Mom, Melody, made me walk up and down the wood parquet floors with a book atop my head in an (successful) effort to correct my poor posture and pigeon feet. this is the house where my Dad awoke us via the built-in intercom one Christmas morning as he pretended to be Santa Claus – he scared us to death actually and we stayed in our beds until he came to assure us that Santa was not a deranged lunatic loose in our house. this is the house where my older sister Julie taught me her cheerleading routines in the front yard and taught me how to dance (once upon a time i had no rhythm). this is the house where my sister Holly would lead Heidi and Abby in goofy dress-ups and act out even sillier skits. this is the house where i received an emergency breakthrough call telling me that my sister Heidi had been hit by a car (she was okay. suffered a concussion and from then on looked both ways before crossing an intersection).
on my return drive from Nebraska, we (my co-pilot William and i) took a detour to Tulsa. i was in search of a connection with my past. i was in search of a connection with my Dad, Mark Niles, who died in 1995 of a brain aneurysm. i was 20 at the time and he has been gone from my life for nearly 13 years now – longer than he was a part of my life. over the past four years, as life presented me with trials, tribulations, great successes and greater challenges i have come to miss him more and more.
Dad was a comedian. funny. intelligent. he drove a fabulous British red Triumph TR7, which was representative of who he was as a man – compact, sporty, fun, bright, unique. he was addicted to “fire” jolly rancher candies. taught me to play chess. he was quick to laugh. he married my mom – a single mother with four young daughters – and together they brought one more Niles Girl into the world to make a solid 5 daughters. when i broke both my wrists in 5th grade and was stuck at home over spring break with plaster casts on both arms, Dad brought me lunch every day – a cheeseburger and fries from Braum’s. the first day, he laughed when he caught me staring at my lunch with concentrated perplexity (the casts prevented me from holding the burger). he cut the burger in quarters every day after that.
in a family of seven, one-on-one time with a parent is a near impossibility. i had one main objective in returning to Tulsa – to find the place where i spent a small, but great, period of time alone with my Dad. i was in 5th grade and he picked me up downtown after i toured an insurance company while on a field trip for “smart” kids. that afternoon he took me to a hot dog place, The Original Coney Islander. it had mahogany wood paneling along the walls. you ate standing up. there were no tables, just a long, skinny wood bar with a few stools along the wall. Dad pulled one of the stools over so that i could reach the bar. i remember black and white historical photos on the walls, but more importantly i remember how special i felt in that moment. my Dad had that effect on people. he made you feel special. his deep brown eyes would focus on you when you spoke.
(photos/William Lauer)
thanks to William, we found the place. it wasn’t open on Saturdays. i’m actually glad that it wasn’t open. if it was, i would have been compelled to go in and have a hot dog – just like i did with my Dad (steamed hot dog with melting shredded chedder cheese and diced white onion) – but it would not have been the same. recreating memories never achieves what you wish it would. standing in front of the place (which has a different name and has been renovated since i was there) i realized that afternoon i spent eating hot dogs with my Dad was over 20 years ago.
i wonder what advice my Dad would have given me over the past 13 years. i wonder what kind of father he would have grown to be to his adult daughters and what he would think of the men we have chosen as partners. i wonder what kind of grandfather he would have been to the children my sisters all have now. his death has had a profound and prolonged effect on our family, especially my mother who has never recovered from it.
the sunday evening before Dad died unexpectedly, my entire family gathered for dinner at Julie and Jason’s apartment. i’m fortunate. the last words i ever said to my dad were, “I love you” as i gave him a big hug goodbye that night. the next time i saw him two days later, he was gone. his spirit had left his body, his eyes were without his intense vibrancy.
my Dad wasn’t a saint. he was a man. he had faults. he was exceedingly stubborn with a quick temper. he and i argued more than he and any of my sisters ever did. our last major fight created some positive change in both he and i, which i am thankful for now that i am an adult. i have a deeper respect and admiration for the challenges that my Dad accepted without question when he married “his family”. the house at 1911 E. 53rd Street is also where my Dad ran after my biological father’s car with a baseball bat when the biological father brought us home hours late after court-appointed visitation and my parents were worried that we had been abducted. this is the house where my parents nursed the newly-pierced ears of Julie and I after biological father took the earings out with pliers because he thought our tiny smiley face earrings were tawdry. the house on E. 53rd Street is also the family Home we lost due to my parents five-year battle to retain custody of my sisters and i when our biological father and his family repeatedly took my parents to court and all money was devoted to court and lawyer fees.
one of the greatest compliments my Dad could receive was when someone would tell him that his daughters looked like him (an impossibility due to the technicality that we were not related through blood but through choice). on the day of his memorial service, i stood in the receiving line to greet all who came to honor my Dad. the service was delayed due to the incredible turn-out of people. it was standing room only, even with the anteroom that was opened to handle the overflow of people. that day I listened to story after story about my dad from people that knew him as Mark. until that day i really only knew him as my Dad. i’m thankful for those stories. they provided me with a more complete vision of who my dad was as a man. the laughter these stories were shared with, despite the sorrow of the event, is a testament to the nature of my Dad’s spirit.
i do resemble my Dad. i have his traits. tenacity. insatiable curiosity. deep and unwavering devotion to those i love. i have a love of laughter and practical jokes, as he did. i have his sarcasm and quick wit. i carry these parts of him with me in a loving attempt to keep his engaging spirit alive.
Your father would admire your compassion.
That was absolutely wonderful, it moved me to tears. Thank you for sharing something so incredibly personal.
Krista, this is a beautiful tribute to your dad. You shared a lot with him, obviously, and I am deeply touched that you would pass forward his qualities in concert with your own loving and devoted nature.
Thanks for sharing. I learned a lot. Being younger, even though I was 15 when dad passed, I still didn’t know a lot of what you shared. I don’t remember people talking at dad’s service. I hardly remember us girls getting up there and trying to speak the words we had written for him. I didn’t know you and dad had all that alone time when you broke both arms. I just figured you sat at home on the couch, bored out of your mind. I don’t even remember those days. Only a few moments. Sad, but perhaps all for good reason.