I told you about my hiking days last week, about the lessons I learned from my father and how they came back to my aid when I faced the worst days of my life on Skid Row.
I told you about how my father prodded me, asking me if I still knew how to swim all those years after the lessons and training he provided me at the Crenshaw YMCA.
I told you how I jumped back into the pool shortly after my father passed.
Now let me tell you what that meant.
On my first day at the pool, I walked around looking at the plaques. I saw the names of people with whom — and against whom — I swam in competitions. I was remembering my youth and the training I underwent back then.
I thought I would continue where I left off, doing four or five repetitions of 400 meter sets. Sure, I had abused drugs, but I thought I was staying in shape by jogging and lifting weights.
I found out quickly I was deluding myself.
After two laps, I thought I was going to die. I Ieft the pool, but returned the next day. I kept coming back for two years. I developed into a swimmer once again, averaging two miles a day. I added running and weightlifting to my program. I rode my bike home after my daily workouts, glancing at the Griffith Park Observatory atop the Hollywood Hills. I waved to the spot there where we had scattered my father's ashes.
The regimen helped me get off drugs for awhile.
Then my world crashed, bringing trials and tribulations — and a return to the dope.
I didn't forget the hike, or the swimming, though. I had followed my father's teachings and made progress before, and managed to do it again. That's the only reason I'm able to write this right now.
None of that would have been possible without my father, whose influence shaped my life and remains my guide even now, long after his death.
I had a father.
I have a father.
He matters to me.
Walter Melton is a writer for the L.A. Garment & Citizen.
Visit Walter Melton's blog at www.scribeskidrow.blogspot.com.
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
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